


Gravity

by NotEnoughAnswers



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 62
Words: 306,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6093703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEnoughAnswers/pseuds/NotEnoughAnswers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to predict the future, one must first understand the past. The Winter Soldier wasn't Dr. Zola's only experiment, and Beatrice Hartley's past was as entangled with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s past was with Hydra. Apparently, what is thought to be dead never actually stays that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from FanFiction.Net, February 2016.

_**"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?** _

_**Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?"** _

**\- John Keats,** _**Ode to a Nightingale** _

**2014**

**Switzerland**

An arrow sliced cleanly through the stale air, soaring high over the cavernous ceiling above and arcing down over the rows of rusted, ancient computers, finally cutting its target perfectly in half. The rope snapped, and the weight of the balcony it had been holding up collapsed with a deafening crash, briefly throwing a cloud of dust and debris over the area. The facility had obviously been abandoned for years, perhaps decades, and judging by the technology of the computers, had been built in the mid-twentieth century.

Clint Barton leapt onto the ruin of the balcony and pulled himself up onto the railing above with barely a grunt, surveying his handiwork. Not only would it take hours for the debris to settle, it blocked the view of anyone who might happen to walk into the room: not that he expected  _that_  to happen—the factory was a hundred miles from any sort of populated area, and it had been completely empty for decades.

"Couldn't resist making a scene, huh?" a sultry voice asked from behind him. Clint spun around on one heel and grinned at Natasha Romanoff, who was leaning against the railing waiting for him, having simply taken the stairs to the second floor. The corner of her mouth was upturned in a slight smirk, but as usual, it was impossible to tell whether or not she was genuinely amused.

"You know it," he said flippantly, reaching around to pull another arrow out of his quiver and string it on his bow. "God, this place is a dump. I'm expecting a ghost to attack me at any moment."

"You're not too far off," Natasha replied, silently appearing at his side. They began to walk together down the catwalk; a solid steel door was visible at the end of the walkway. "This was Arnim Zola's personal laboratory before his death forty years ago. S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence has it on record that he spent most of his time here under the guise of studying the effects of nuclear radiation."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence?" snorted Clint, unable to help himself. "You mean everybody's intelligence. I wouldn't be surprised if the CIA and MI6 have already infiltrated it."

Natasha glanced sideways at him. "Not everything was leaked," she said. "Hydra kept certain cards very close to their chest."

"So is that why we're here?" Clint asked, raising an eyebrow. "So you can find out everything about Hydra before Fury does?"

She smiled again, wickedly. "Partly," Natasha admitted. "And partly because I owe Steve."

By now they had reached the door; the metal was rusted and stained, but that didn't stop it from doing its job. Clint reached back into his quiver and drew out a small, oblong rectangular object, flipping a switch on its underside and shoving it into the lock with more force than was strictly necessary. Less than a second later, there was a shower of sparks and the lock completely melted under his fingertips. Natasha shoved the door inward with her shoulder and they stepped inside a dark, disappointingly ordinary hallway—a dim lightbulb covered in spiderwebs hung from the ceiling, and two doors were set into either side of the corridor, giving no clues as to what lay beyond.

"You and Rogers, huh?" Clint asked, stopping in front of the door on the right. It was secured with nothing more than a padlock; evidently Zola had believed the steel door would keep out any unwelcome intruders.

"Don't be stupid, Barton," Natasha snapped as she got to work on the other door, her fingers deftly picking away at the lock. "He saved my life in Washington more times than I'm willing to admit. The least I can do is help him out a bit."

Clint glanced back at her, his sharp eyes zeroing in on her throat: he was secretly pleased to see a delicate silver chain still hanging there—a necklace he had presented to her shortly before her assignment in D.C. He hadn't expected her to actually wear it, but he'd been legitimately shocked when she had put it on just before leaving for the airport.

"See something you like?" Natasha purred in recognition of his poorly disguised jealousy, and Clint realized he had been staring at her. The knowing glint in her eyes made him wonder, not for the first time, if she could read his thoughts. Natasha always knew—or at least she knew more than Clint, something he was perfectly happy to accept. It was one of the reasons why their partnership was so efficient, among other words.

"Maybe," Clint said briskly, recovering himself as fast as he could. Now it was his turn to smirk at her. "But you'll never know." Before she could retort, he yanked the padlock free and pushed the door open. He knew he would pay for that later, likely in the most painful way possible, but for now he could relish the sweet taste of victory.

He stepped forward into an unusually cold room that was completely empty save for a tall, upright metal container standing in the far corner. Fluorescent lights flickered on hazily overhead at Clint's approach, lighting his path directly to it. He thought, with an uneasy twist in the pit of his stomach that he would never dare to even acknowledge, that it looked very much like a coffin. Had Zola been trying to resurrect the dead? The floor was tiled and white, the walls covered with a plaster coating. The room was hardly larger than the hallway outside, and Clint guessed that the main room had been Zola's actual laboratory: this was something no one else had been meant to see. Perhaps Zola and a few doctors, but S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly wouldn't have known about it.

He carefully made his way over to the… _machine_ , for lack of a better word. Up close, he could see that, like the door, it had begun to rust, and a low humming could be heard emanating from inside, as if it was some sort of old-fashioned refrigerator. Letting his curiosity get the better of him, Clint reached out and placed his hand on its side: it was cold to the touch and vibrated slightly under his fingers.

He wasn't so sure he should have agreed to accompany Natasha anymore. There were days when Clint would have scoffed at infiltrating a Hydra base—after all, he had recovered from being possessed and helped fight a god and his alien army—but today was not one of them. Now he just wanted a television and a strong drink.

At the top of the machine was a circular window that Clint could see was covered in condensation. What the hell  _was_ this? He could think of no other explanation for it aside from a refrigerator. Maybe the fruits and vegetables were unhappy that they couldn't see outside. Clint snorted under his breath as he wiped the condensation away with one hand. If Zola really  _had_ been trying to create sentient vegetables, he called dibs on telling Fury.

But when he leaned forward and peered inside, what he saw was most definitely  _not_ food.

"Clint, I've been calling you for the past five minutes," Natasha said in exasperation, striding forward into the room with her arms crossed against the cold. "There's an operating room back there—looks like the surgeons must have stopped in the middle of a procedure; there's blood all over the table, but I don't know how old it is. I managed to retrieve a vial and take pictures." She shrugged, unaffected—she'd certainly seen much worse in her day. "Zola might have brought the Winter Soldier here for further experimentation."

"I don't think so," Clint said, his lips barely moving. "Nat, look."

His dumbfounded tone was one he rarely employed—not letting her interest show on her face, Natasha stepped forward and followed his gaze into the machine. Clint looked over at her, gauging her reaction—her cell phone was already in her hand. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen as she handed it to Clint, her lips pursed into a thin line.

"Call Fury," Natasha ordered. "He's going to want to see this."


	2. II

**1942**

**Brooklyn, New York**

A violent gust of wind shook the tenement building, rattling the windowpanes and sending a flurry of snow through the crack under the door. Beatrice Hartley pulled her old, ratted blanket more tightly around her shoulders and shivered, huddling herself into a ball so she could be closer to the dying fire. The logs were nearly burnt to ashes, and she wasn't about to drag herself through the raging blizzard to buy more. In fact, she doubted she could even afford to buy  _one_  log. It was quickly becoming clear that she had no idea how to live on her own, much less live on her own in the dead of winter.

The unmistakable sound of a baby's wail jolted her from her reverie. That was Henry, fussing again: Beatrice forced her frozen legs to move and stood up, reluctantly leaving the circle of warmth to fetch the bottle of formula in the kitchen. She had to be careful how much she fed him, since infant formula was rationed and there was always a shortage of it in the city.

Sure enough, her brother was awake when she tiptoed into the bedroom—she'd moved his crib into her room so she could keep an eye on him at night—and crying loud enough to wake every person in Brooklyn. "Shhh," Beatrice whispered to him, setting the bottle down before gently gathering him up in her arms, noting with worry that his cheeks were cold.

Henry was only six months old, but in many ways it was as if years had passed since his birth. Beatrice had become his sole caretaker after her mother died in childbirth and her father descended even deeper into an alcoholic haze. She leaned over and softly kissed his forehead, admiring how his red hair glinted in the dim firelight. She had no family but Henry now. With her parents both dead, she owned nothing more than their tiny flat and the clothes on her back. She knew she could try to find a job at one of the munitions factories around New York, but there would be no one to look after Henry while she was away and no guarantee that she would be able to pay the rent or provide for both of them. She'd barely managed to convince the landlord that she was capable of managing the household alone.

Another gust of icy wind blew inside, scattering the ashes across the floor and making her shiver again. After putting Henry back down, Beatrice ghosted over to the yellowed lace curtains in the parlor, drawing them back with one finger and peering outside onto the snowy street below. Nothing was visible save for the momentary glow of a streetcar as it slowly drove down the road, leaving long tracks in the snow. She couldn't even see the distant glow of the Manhattan lights across the river, and once the car had disappeared around the corner, she had the unnerving sensation that she was the only living soul in the city.

Beatrice turned her back on the window, retreating to the fire and staring forlornly at the dying embers. For the first time in her life, she was completely alone. She had no family who could take her or Henry in—all four of their grandparents were dead, their father had no siblings, and though her mother had once or twice mentioned having an elder brother, Beatrice knew nothing of the whereabouts of her mysterious relative. A well-meaning neighbor had suggested that she should bring Henry to the orphanage if she was ever unable to care for him any longer. Apparently she herself had grown up in a children's home at the turn of the century, and was adamant that she would not be the same person she was without it. In some respects, Beatrice knew that at least there Henry would never have to know hunger or loneliness, and he would receive an education—things that she couldn't promise to give to him—and, since he was so young, he had a higher chance of being adopted into a caring family—but she couldn't bear to give her brother up. After twenty years of stillborn after stillborn, Henry had been her only sibling to survive, but his birth had cost Elena Hartley her life. Henry and Beatrice were both testaments to survival. She would fight to the death to keep him safe, even if it meant that she sacrificed her own well-being to do so.

With one last sputter of sparks, the fire finally died, leaving nothing but a fine wisp of smoke curling up into the cold air. Beatrice sighed, her breath fanning out in a long cloud, and realized with an unpleasant jolt that her eyes were wet. She hadn't cried properly since her father died; everything after that had been a blur of finding enough money to pay for a gravestone and selling what unimportant possessions she owned. Now the flat was almost completely bare, and she had no idea how much longer they could live like this. If it was just her, she wouldn't have been as worried, but  _Henry…_

The grandfather clock in the corner, the only other piece of furniture in the room that hadn't been sold, chimed midnight with its usual deafening gongs. Beatrice wasn't even sure herself why she was still awake; there was nothing for her to do, and although her stomach ached dully from lack of food, all they had to eat was a quarter of a loaf of bread and half a bottle of milk. Perhaps there was some cheese left over from when she had last gone to the store. The cabinets had been filled with bottles before John Hartley's death, but of course Beatrice had gotten rid of them. Now, ironically, she thought that a drink wouldn't have been such a bad idea.

She fetched herself a glass of water before heading back into the bedroom. Henry was thankfully fast asleep again, one chubby fist clutching his thin blanket. She pulled her own blanket over herself as she climbed into bed and blew out the lone candle, casting the room in darkness. "Good night, Henry," she whispered to him before rolling over and closing her eyes, trying to ignore the hunger that now constantly gnawed at her insides.

* * *

Hours later, she awoke shivering and completely drenched, as if she had been submerged in freezing water. Horrified, she bolted upright and threw her blanket off to see that the bed was completely soaked, and a torrent of ice and snow was pouring in through the crack between the window and the wall. They lived on the bottom floor of the tenement, and anything coming in through the upper walls meant it originated from the ground level. There had occasionally been rats and puddles during particularly bad seasons, but never anything like this in Beatrice's memory.

She yelped the second her feet touched the floor, quickly stifling the sound—the water was up to her ankles. Chunks of half-melted ice were floating across the current, and as she waded over to Henry's crib, she saw that the trunk containing the few outfits she owned was almost completely submerged. All she was wearing was a light blue cotton nightgown that was torn down the sleeve and was now the only piece of dry clothing in sight. It was no match for the winter, and Henry's poorly-stitched pyjamas were the only thing he had.

To Beatrice's relief, he was miraculously still asleep. She scooped him up and managed to rescue her mother's old burgundy flannel robe before wading out of the room. After giving the rooms a quick once-over, she realized, her heart dropping, that the bathroom, kitchen, parlor, and second bedroom were all completely submerged. Pieces of plaster were swirling around her feet—the old apartment had evidently been unable to withstand the blizzard. She knew that they hadn't been able to afford installing extra protection around the windows in case of leaks, and their landlord had refused to cover the cost for them. The rest of the tenants had gotten the renovations as far as she knew, but John had said they weren't a necessity.  _And your drinks were?_ Beatrice now thought bitterly, struggling to balance Henry in one arm as she wrenched open the front door with a great effort against the flood. She knew the landlord wouldn't allow her back inside unless she was able to pay for the damages.

Now she was beginning to panic; of all the nights she had to be driven out, this one took the cake. There was no way of knowing how high the water would get, and she had nowhere to go—unless one of the neighbors took pity on her—

But she already knew that wasn't an option. Due to John's reputation for public intoxication and his general drunken manner, the Hartleys had never been popular with the other tenants. The only neighbor Beatrice might have a chance with was in her eighties and lived in a flat even smaller than their own. Mrs. Banner was a nice woman, but Beatrice knew she would try to take Henry to the orphanage, and that was definitely not an option. Beatrice clutched him tighter in her arms as she stumbled out onto the snowy street, and promised herself that she would never leave him. He was her only family now—she had a duty to take care of him. She would even go to the women's shelter and pretend he was her own son if she had to.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the tall buildings of Manhattan in the distance as Beatrice adjusted a still-sleeping Henry in her arms and resolutely stepped forward onto the sidewalk, her shoulders hunched against the freezing air. Her painfully thin stockings offered no protection against the elements, and the water on the floor had already soaked the insides of her slippers. If only it was summer, she would be able to abandon them and walk barefoot…then again, if it was summer, she would hardly be in this position. She vaguely knew that there was a homeless shelter somewhere on Church Avenue, which was a thirty-minute walk away. At the very least, they might have somewhere warm to sleep until she figured out what she was supposed to do.

Beatrice's arms were shaking, but not from the weight of holding Henry anymore. She kept her head down as she wove through the sidewalk, trying to stay calm. The cold air bit at every inch of exposed skin, and after a while her hands turned red and numb, which was almost worse than the biting wind.  _Just one more step,_ she kept telling herself over and over.  _Just one more step, and you'll be there…just one more…_ Perhaps she would have once found it humiliating that she was forced into a shelter, but her survival instincts took precedence over her pride at the moment. She had to get Henry some food and warmth, and neither of those things could happen in the flooded tenement. There had to be some way to get it back. She knew there was a munitions factory down by the Navy Yard where many women worked. If she could only get Henry looked after during the day, she could work there until she was able to afford the damages…if only John had installed new windows like he was  _supposed_ to…if only he hadn't been a drunkard…the children at school used to call Beatrice names, taunting her about her useless father. She'd become a typist at a nearby dentist's office after she finished school, but it had done little good as it had been forced to close when the war broke out. By then they had no income except for what little money Elena's odd jobs brought them, and that had all gone to fund John's addiction, even during the height of Prohibition.

Beatrice was so busy trying to keep her balance that she didn't notice someone right in front of her until she walked right into them; she gasped and jumped back, making sure Henry wasn't jostled. "I'm sorry, sir," she immediately apologized as the man gave her a dirty look, adjusting his hat. "I should have been more careful—Mr. Pryce!" Beatrice's outburst was unladylike, but she couldn't help herself. Of all the people to run into on the street, she'd found her landlord. Hope burst inside her chest, undeterred even by his glare.

"I received a call this morning from another tenant, who explained that the storm last night appears to have flooded your rooms. I was just on my way to take a look." Mr. Pryce sounded irritated, as if he had a thousand better things to do than examine his own property.

"Yes—I woke up to find everything drenched," Beatrice explained, the words tumbling over each other in their rush to leave her brain. She was too frantic to care that she was in her nightclothes. "My father didn't repair the windows, and Henry and I have no other family to stay with. I know you stated that you're not liable for any damages, but we have nowhere to go but the shelter—"

"Then you will have to hope there is a spot for you," Mr. Pryce said gruffly. "Look, girl, I allowed you to stay after the death of your parents because they were some of my oldest tenants, but you ought to have been married years ago. As per the agreement you signed just last week, I am afraid that I cannot allow you back inside the building until the damages are fully paid for. As of now, you are no longer a tenant of mine. Good day." And with that, he began to stride away, like he hadn't just destroyed what little consistency remained in her life.

Beatrice stared after him dumbly, gaping in surprise like a fish. "Sir!" she called back, the cold scraping her throat raw. "I'll do anything—" But it was too late; he had already disappeared. She'd already known he wouldn't allow her back in, but the notion that they were truly homeless now hit her like a brick. Mr. Pryce had always been looking for an excuse to evict them, and here was one, ready-made. She doubted he would even allow her to go back and retrieve her possessions—not that she would have gone, anyway. At least the things that were now damaged beyond repair hadn't been objects she particularly wanted to keep.

By the time Beatrice turned onto Church Avenue, her teeth were chattering madly and she could no longer feel her extremities. Henry was beginning to stir, and she noticed that his fingers were turning blue. Or perhaps they were her fingers—she couldn't tell anymore. The cold had now turned into something that resembled a twisted warmth.

When she finally stumbled into the brownstone building with the words  _Brooklyn Mission_ slashed above the door in fading blue letters, she nearly collapsed onto the floor. The trouble was she wasn't the only one with that idea. Bodies were crammed onto every available inch of floor space, huddling against the cold. Most were dressed in little more than rags and all had the same empty look in their eyes. She couldn't even see into the main room.

"Sorry, we're full," a voice barked from somewhere beside her, and she turned around to see a severe-looking woman wearing a nurse's uniform carrying a tray laden with bowls of yellow soup. "There's no room left. You're not the only one affected by the blizzard."

In a fit of desperation, Beatrice held Henry out to her, his green eyes blinking imploringly. "Then at least take my brother. He's just a baby."

"I can see that." She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

 _"Please,"_ Beatrice begged.

But she could already tell that it was a lost cause. "We cannot take him, I am sorry. There are already far too many mouths to feed."

As if on cue, Henry began to wail loudly, waving his tiny fists around in the air. A few people raised their heads to glare at them, and the woman nearly shoved a bowl of soup at Beatrice, the liquid sloshing over the sides and running down the porcelain. "Give this to the baby," she ordered. Seeing Beatrice's expression, something in her own face seemed to soften. "There is an orphanage just two blocks away. They will take him."

Beatrice's entire body recoiled at the thought of going back outside, but she had no other choice. Her arms were shaking with the effort of holding Henry up, and she struggled to balance him and not drop the bowl of soup. After thanking the woman as truthfully as she could, who stared after her with something like pity in her eyes, she carefully navigated through the bodies lying on the floor back outside.

She'd barely staggered ten steps down the sidewalk when it became clear that she would not be able to make it two blocks. A wave of overwhelming exhaustion had suddenly hit her out of nowhere, and now all she wanted to do was sleep. She was tired…so tired…she would just rest her eyes for a minute and then she would have the strength to carry on again…

"Are you—h-hungry, H-Henry?" Beatrice asked him, but the words wouldn't come out properly: her tongue was as heavy as iron in her mouth and her speech was slurred. Paying no heed to the pedestrians hurrying around her, she sat down right in the middle of the sidewalk, balancing Henry in her lap. She tried to give him a spoonful of the soup, but her hands were shaking so badly it kept tilting and splashing on his blanket instead. She was dimly aware that he was still crying, but his wails were muted to her ears, as if she was hearing him from the opposite side of a long tunnel.

Still, she had no intention of bringing him to the orphanage. She wouldn't allow him to grow up without at least one member of his family around—she would wash Pryce's floors until she saved up enough money to repair their rooms. Beatrice remembered, before drink became the most important thing in his life, her father reading bedtime stories to her— _A Little Princess_ had been her childhood favorite. While Sara Crewe had gone from being unimaginably rich to unimaginably poor, Beatrice wished for the opposite ending. That had been John's nickname for her, too: his little princess. Of course, once he'd been laid off for repressed shellshock after his time in the Great War, there had been no more of those stories, and whiskey became his constant companion.

Her mother, on the other hand, had been a seamstress, the daughter of hardworking Russian immigrants. Beatrice remembered throwing the needle down and crying when she couldn't get her sewing to look exactly as Elena's did, and her mother had put a hand over hers and told her that she was a better healer than Elena herself was, that she had the gift of repairing things. So far, at least, her mother had turned out to be correct, and Beatrice had always been Henry's caregiver. But she was tired of spending her energy on other people. In her twenty-two years of life, she'd hardly been able to spare a thought for herself.

She leaned her head back against a snowbank and closed her eyes, feeling oddly peaceful. She was no longer aware of her surroundings, or her shivers, or even Henry, who was still bawling his eyes out. Snowflakes were still drifting peacefully from the coppery gray sky, and she was quickly lulled into sleep by their calm, silent journey, promising herself that she would rest for just thirty seconds…

…"Wake up.  _Wake up."_ A harsh, insistent voice was sounding in her ear, shaking her shoulder. She tried to shrug it off, to lose herself in unconsciousness again, but the pull back to reality was too strong. Opening her eyes took every bit of effort she had, and for a second all she saw was swirling snow. Then a face hovering in front of her own finally snapped into focus—the rimmed glasses and dark hair was one she dimly recognized. She was still sitting on the sidewalk in front of the shelter, in the same spot she had fallen asleep on. How much time had passed?

"Mrs. Banner," Beatrice slurred. She couldn't move her body at all anymore, and her thoughts were whirling in a slow state of confusion. She was cold… _so cold…_ "What are you—what are you doing here?"

"I found you like this. My  _God_ , child, you're frozen and half-dead. I'll bring you to the hospital—if you're lucky, you'll only have one or two fingers amputated…"

Beatrice dumbly looked down at her arms, and with a dull jolt she saw that they were empty.  _Henry._ "My brother," was all she could say. "Where is he?"

"I took him to the orphanage," Mrs. Banner said. She grabbed hold of Beatrice's arm and hoisted her up into a standing position; she could barely support herself. The bowl of soup had spilled all over the sidewalk. "He'll be safer there, unless you were deliberately putting him at risk for hypothermia."

Panic seized her again, the strongest emotion she'd felt yet.  _No._ She had made a promise to herself that he wouldn't go to the orphanage. She had to protect him—she had to—

Beatrice turned on one heel and began to run down the street, forcing her muscles to move. Pain lanced through her with every step she took, but adrenaline was propelling her forward. She heard Mrs. Banner calling after her, but Beatrice ignored it—she had to find Henry. He was the only important thing to her right now.

The mantra repeated over and over in her mind as she ran, but pure adrenaline only lasted so long, and after a point she was unable to continue any longer. Her legs simply gave out from under her, and she collapsed, her head hitting the ground hard. A momentary flash of pain blinded her, and then she was lying on the cold ground, her cheek pressed against the snow. She no longer felt as if she was inhabiting her own body, and the horrible exhaustion overwhelmed her again.  _Henry,_ she thought—or maybe she said it aloud—and with that, the last reserve of her strength completely failed her.

Beatrice wasn't sure how long she lay there, hearing her heartbeat growing slower and slower as she tried to accept the fact that she was dying, when there was a dull thud from beside her as if something had been slammed into the wall, and loud, angry voices were suddenly piercing the air. She couldn't even move her head to see what was going on; there was another slam, followed by two more—or maybe three—and then, finally, silence.

It felt like an eternity had passed before she heard someone speak again. "Ma'am, are you all right?" a male voice was asking, and through her blurred vision she saw something yellow and blue—the dim outline of another person beside her.

 _Are you God?_ Beatrice tried to ask.  _If you are, please keep Henry safe._ But she couldn't speak, and now the figure was disappearing from the edges of her vision. "Ma'am?" he asked again, and his outline drew slightly closer, as if he had knelt down beside her. Something very warm touched her hand, and she involuntarily let out a cry of shock.

She didn't remember much after that.


	3. III

_Cold._

She was drowning in it, freezing in it. She had been cold many times before, of course, but at least then she'd had a warm fire to huddle in front of or a blanket to wrap herself in or, when she was a child, her parents' arms.

But this was no ordinary feeling. The cold was relentless, unforgiving, snaking its way like blood through her veins and permeating every inch of her skin. She could think of nothing, concentrate on nothing, except for it. She had almost forgotten what warmth felt like. She had no body of her own, no entity besides the cold. Later on, she would understand that she had been drifting in and out of consciousness, her body shutting down to try and prevent her temperature from becoming critically low, but it was nearly too late. If she'd been lying in that alley for even five more minutes, she would have surely died.

But Beatrice didn't realize any of it until much later. All she could think was that she wanted to die—but it wasn't that, precisely. She didn't want to die—she just wanted the absence of feeling. She didn't want to  _feel_ anymore. It was too much, and something had gone terribly wrong but she couldn't remember what, and she wanted to feel Henry safe in her arms, and, childishly, she wanted her mother, murmuring comforting Russian in her ears like she used to do when Beatrice was young. Many times Elena had tried to teach her native language to her daughter, but Beatrice had put up such a fuss with the unfamiliar alphabet that her mother had eventually given up on her.

She wasn't exactly sure how long it had been when she next became aware of something other than the cold, but at least she knew she wasn't outside anymore. She could now see the outline of an unfamiliar bedroom, her vision not yet clear enough to perceive all the details. Floral wallpaper adorned the walls, and two wooden bedposts shaped the edges of her limited sight. Hazily, she thought that she had never slept in a nicer bed. It took her several more half-conscious driftings in and out of oblivion before she realized that she was no longer cold, but her body was still shivering in the echo of the memory.

Muttered voices brought her back to the conscious realm once again. They were both distinctly masculine, now, and Beatrice's eyes fluttered open in surprise. She'd expected to wake up in the shelter, or even at Mrs. Banner's apartment, if she survived at all. John Hartley had never been a God-fearing man, and therefore neither was his family, but if Beatrice had been asked to describe a possible afterlife, this was not what she would have imagined.

"I couldn't just leave her there, Buck."

The pleading voice of a young man reached Beatrice's ears first as her hearing sharpened—a startlingly familiar voice—and it didn't take her long to match the voice of the same boy who had spoken to her in the alleyway. Now Beatrice was able to see him properly, and she realized that he wasn't a boy at all—he was, in fact, no younger than her, but barely taller and with a boyish-looking face. His frame was skinny almost to the point of ill health, and his cheekbones were hollowed in. His overall appearance coupled with a grisly purple bruise under his left eye almost prompted Beatrice to ask if he shouldn't be the one lying down instead.

And yet there was more than just surface familiarity to him: she was sure she had seen him before, but  _where?_

"Of all the things to happen to you on Christmas Eve, you get beaten up and take a girl back to your place afterward," a second voice replied, sounding at once rueful, amused, and more than slightly incredulous. "Seriously, pal, what were you thinking? You've heard of a hospital, right?"

"She'd be dead before she got there. You should have seen her, Bucky—all blue and nearly frozen. Besides, those  _guys_ would have gotten her if I hadn't." There was a sharp edge in the not-a-stranger's voice now. "I know how to treat frostbite. Ma used to have those kinds of patients all the time in winter. There was some medicine left in the cabinet, anyway."

The one called Bucky asked, in a hushed tone, "You don't think she's a harlot, do you?"

"If she was, she shoulda known not to be outside on a day like this."

"So should you," Bucky replied in a sharper tone. "Aw,  _Steve,_ what are you gonna do? She's probably got family looking for her."

"I don't."

This came from Beatrice, who had finally mustered up the energy to speak. Her voice came out as little more than a croaking whisper. Now she opened her eyes fully, and both young men were cast in sharp relief: the blond boy with thin features—Steve—and the more muscular one beside him, who looked like someone straight out of the pictures or one of the glossy magazines that Beatrice could never afford, with a finely chiseled face, neatly combed dark hair and gray eyes. The two of them were as different as night and day; Beatrice didn't think she'd ever seen an odder pair.

Both of them looked startled to discover that she'd been listening to their conversation; Bucky even looked slightly guilty, though the moment was fleeting. "How are you feeling, ma'am?" Steve asked, leaning forward to survey her with worried blue eyes. Beatrice struggled to push herself up onto her elbows and coughed weakly. She was no longer cold—but neither was she warm. The numbness was still coating her body. Outside the small, grimy window behind the boys, she could see thick, swirling snow, and felt nauseous at the sight.

"Better than before," she replied. "What—what happened?"

"I found you lying in an alley off Church Avenue," explained Steve. "I know a bit about treating hypothermia, so I brought you back to my place. I gave you some codeine in case you were in pain and hoped you would pull through. I hope you don't mind, ma'am, but you were in a bad state."

 _I thought you were God,_ Beatrice almost said, remembering the flash of yellow and blue she'd seen as she had fallen unconscious. But she bit the words back. "Thank you for saving me," she told Steve fervently, looking him directly in the eyes. His face turned pink and he glanced away from her, embarrassed.

"I've told him he needs to start charging for his services," Bucky jumped in, with a cocky grin. "But he won't listen to me."

Beatrice tried to smile politely at him, but her head was whirling so fast she could barely keep up with it. In the space of twelve hours, she had gone from being homeless to losing Henry to nearly dying of hypothermia, and then being rescued by two boys she didn't know. Was some divine power toying with her? At this point, she wouldn't doubt it.

"And I would pay him if I had any money," she ruefully admitted. "I apologize, Mr…" she trailed off, realizing she didn't know his name, and she didn't want to reveal that she'd heard their entire conversation.

"Steve Rogers," the blond boy said. He held out his hand, and Beatrice grasped it weakly, remembering the last spot of warmth she had felt in the alleyway. "And this is Bucky Barnes." Something about his voice was buried deep in Beatrice's memory, and it was then that his inherent familiarity finally clicked in her brain.

On her fifth birthday, she had received a shiny new quarter from her parents as a present and immediately skipped to the corner store, where she bought a stick of peppermint candy, intending to eat it at the park. A group of older boys had followed her out of the store and tried to take it from her, but they were stopped by a scrawny boy a few years older than Beatrice with a pale, sickly pallor. He had made such a commotion that the store owner had come out and banished the boys, but one of them snatched the candy out of her hands on his way by. She'd begun to cry, and the skinny boy had run into the store and bought her another piece of candy. Beatrice had broken it in half and given a piece to him in thanks, and the two of them had happily shared the candy together. She had never seen the boy again—she'd long forgotten his name—but it was an incident that she'd never forgotten. Now she could connect that small boy with the one who had rescued her earlier.

Bucky Barnes was a familiar name as well, though not quite as much as Steve's. Back when she'd attended school, "Bucky" had been the name of a very popular boy—perhaps Beatrice had seen him once or twice in the hallways, but she'd never spoken to him. Now that she thought about it, she did remember some of the girls in her class complaining that he always hung around "that wet blanket Rogers".

"You're the candy boy," she exclaimed to Steve, prompting two baffled looks. "You gave me your candy once after mine got stolen and we ate it in Prospect Park together." She quickly did the math in her head. "Seventeen years ago."

Steve's puzzled expression quickly turned into one of dawning comprehension. "I remember that," he said, with a short laugh. "I got punched in the nose, but it was worth it."

"Some things never change, huh, pal?" Bucky asked, playfully shoving Steve on the shoulder. Beatrice noticed that he used less force than he could have, presumably not wanting to hurt him, and she knew that the gossipmongers back at school were wrong: Bucky Barnes truly cared for Steve Rogers. He wasn't just friends with him out of pity, as she'd overheard many a time. They were bits of high school gossip that she hadn't bothered to consciously retain once she'd left.

Beatrice smiled at them, slightly less on edge now that she could identify them as peers rather than total strangers. It was then that she remembered she hadn't introduced herself to them, and quickly said, "I'm Beatrice Hartley."

"Hartley?" Bucky asked, looking slightly surprised. "You're John Hartley's daughter, then. My father was in the 105th Infantry with him during the Great War. He said that John took the conflict the hardest out of all of the men. Said that his heart was in the right place, but his mind wasn't. Dad mentioned he had a family in Brooklyn."

Beatrice glanced down at her hands, which were now back to their normal pink hue. Whatever medicine Steve had given her must have helped. "He did," she said quietly.

"Did?" Bucky asked with a slight frown. Beatrice couldn't tell whether he was genuinely curious or not; he'd had a reputation as a notorious flirt.

"He died," she explained, the words harsh and scraping against her tongue. "Last week." She didn't elaborate on the cause of death; if Bucky's father had known him, then Bucky would be able to guess what he had succumbed to.

"Did you go to George Washington?" Steve asked, naming the local public school. He frowned at her as if she had somehow become even more familiar to him.

Beatrice nodded. "After I graduated, I took a correspondence course in stenography and became a typist at Lloyd's Dental before it closed at the beginning of the war." She dragged her hand across her face, knowing that she had to explain to them exactly why she'd been half-frozen when Steve found her. So far they hadn't demanded an explanation, but the question was sure to come. "You see, I don't have… _anyone_ right now. My parents are dead and my little brother was taken to an orphanage against my will. I was trying to run after him, but…" She swallowed, picking at a loose thread on the blanket before remembering it wasn't her bed and quickly dropping it. "…But I didn't have the strength to continue. That's when… _Steve_ …found me." Beatrice managed a small smile at him, and his answering smile was enough to brighten the entire room like sunlight. "We—my brother Henry and I—were forced out of our apartment after it was flooded because of last night's storm. I couldn't afford to pay for new windows, and Pryce—my landlord—told me I can't go back unless I give him the money." She blushed, realizing her mistake. She could get into a lot of trouble if Pryce found out what she had said about him.

"I've heard about him," Bucky interjected, to Beatrice's mild surprise. "There was a lawsuit brought against him in Greenpoint several years ago—claims that he had been unfairly evicting his tenants. The police couldn't find sufficient evidence against him, so he was let go. I guess he's moved to Bushwick now."

"I don't think I'd be able to afford the rent for another month, anyway," Beatrice admitted ruefully. "It was only a matter of time before I was turned out…I wish it had been in the summer, at least." Some part of her was astonished that she was confiding almost everything about herself to two boys she barely knew, but she had no one else to turn to, and she was extraordinarily grateful to Steve for saving her life. They weren't  _complete_ strangers, she tried to tell herself. They had once been schoolmates. "I don't need to get my fingers amputated, do I?" she asked, only half-joking, and Steve laughed, breaking the tension.

"I don't think so," he said, reaching out and taking one of her hands, closing his own over hers. A warmth such as she had never felt before flooded over Beatrice, and she suddenly felt uncomfortably hot—her temperature had been rising steadily throughout their conversation, but she wasn't about to complain. "I brought Bucky over because, well, he's used to taking care of me when I'm sick, and according to him you'll be fine."

"As fine as I could tell without taking off your clothes," Bucky said with a roguish smirk, and Beatrice's entire body flooded with heat. "What? It's the standard procedure we learned in class," he said at Steve's glare, who had very quickly dropped her hand. No one had ever spoken so frankly in front of her, especially a boy she didn't know, and she found herself grateful that the blanket covering her was thick.

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you want," Steve said, and stuttered, clearly uncomfortable, "Until you get better, that is. If you're still not feeling well—"

But Beatrice cut him off. "I'd like to go to the orphanage and find my brother. Please."

The two boys exchanged a long look, the kind that only friends who knew each other better than they knew themselves could. "My folks own a car," Bucky finally said, with a shrug. "I can drive her over there."

"If it's not too much trouble," Beatrice was quick to say, though she would not have looked forward to trudging through the cold again. She was anxious to see Henry no matter what the cost.

Bucky snorted, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Doll, we wouldn't let you walk back there on your own." The endearment fell from his lips easily, and, meeting Beatrice's gaze, he winked at her. She blinked rapidly in return, unsure where to look, but she couldn't help but wonder if he was just putting on a show. There was something almost calculating and protective in his stare, but of what, she had no idea.

"Are you hungry?" Steve asked, standing up from his chair and shrugging on a jacket that was at least three sizes too big for him. "I don't have much, but I'm sure I can find some supper…" He trailed off, his wide and earnest eyes looking questioningly at her, and Beatrice was again struck with a sense of implicit trust. There was something honest and genuine about Steve that was impossible to deny.

Beatrice  _was_ hungry, but Henry took precedence over her own needs at the moment—so much for vowing to take care of herself—and she didn't want Steve to go to any more trouble after he'd been so kind to her. So she merely shook her head and said, "I'm quite fine; thank you, though." But there was no denying that she was nearly as skinny as Steve himself; Bucky was easily the healthiest out of the three of them.

"Buck?" Steve asked his friend, and Bucky shook his head, leaping effortlessly out of his own chair. "I have stuff in the car, don't worry," he said casually, stuffing his hands in his pockets and heading to the door. Pausing in the doorway, he turned to raise an eyebrow at Beatrice. "You coming?" he asked, with another smirk that had won the hearts of every girl at George Washington High School.

"Yes, of course," Beatrice said, and climbed out of the bed, determined not to show any sign of discomfort at the stiffness of her body as she moved; she felt as if she had been unconscious for days, though it likely had only been several hours. She knew she must look a mess, and tried in vain to smooth down her hair as she followed the boys out of the room. Someone had evidently tried to tear the floral wallpaper down—strips were missing from the wall, about shoulder-length, exposing the wood behind—but they appeared to have given up after a few feet. Covering up one of the larger holes was a portrait of a handsome blond man in military uniform standing at attention. Beatrice wondered if this was Steve's father, but she was still feeling disoriented and half-believed she was in a dream.

The rooms didn't appear dissimilar to those in Beatrice's own building—a parlor, a kitchen, and two tiny bedrooms in the back of a crowded tenement: at least it had a private bathroom. Steve's flat was on the second floor, and he shared a balcony with several other residences. It was absurdly small, but it was roughly the size of her flat— _old_ flat—she had to remind herself with a pang of sorrow—and somehow that fact hit her harder than anything else had. She had nowhere to go anymore after finding Henry. Maybe Steve should have just let her freeze to death.

Bucky said something in a low voice to Steve that Beatrice couldn't quite hear, and, with another glance at her—his eyes weren't full of amusement anymore, but were completely serious and steady—disappeared through the front door with a rush of freezing air. Beatrice's arms automatically wrapped around herself at the sensation, and she retreated further back into the flat, a chill sweeping through her again.

Steve was on his hands and knees in the closet, digging for something Beatrice couldn't see. She wanted to help him, but was frozen—literally—to the spot, and began to wonder if she wasn't recovered after all. Fortunately, Steve straightened up before she could go too far down that train of thought, holding up a black wool jacket that was the most inviting piece of clothing Beatrice had seen in days. "You're about my mom's size—you can borrow her coat."

With a grateful smile, Beatrice took it and saw that someone had sewed the name  _Sarah Rogers_ into the tag. Like her son, Sarah must not have been very tall. Fortunately, Beatrice wasn't either: the coat fitted her perfectly, as if it had been made specifically for her frame. "I hope your mother doesn't mind that I'm borrowing her coat," she said, worrying her bottom lip as she wrapped it as tightly around her robe as it would go. The cold air no longer seemed so daunting.

Steve shrugged on his own coat, which nearly fell off his thin frame. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She was a nurse."

Beatrice frowned. "Was?"

Now Steve glanced away from her, fiddling with the buttons on his coat and seeming to stare at something over Beatrice's shoulder. "She died last year. Tuberculosis."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. She wanted to tell him she knew how it felt losing a mother long before their time, but she kept her mouth shut. At least she understood the reason for the floral wallpaper now.

"Don't be," Steve said, with a slight crooked smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Clearly, he was used to shrugging off such sentiments. "It's not your fault."

Beatrice wanted to ask about his father, but luckily Steve was already elaborating. "My dad died before I was born—mustard gas. I'm hoping to be in the 107th Infantry like he was," he said with a touch of pride. This was news to Beatrice: of course she knew that a large portion of the men were away in Europe as soldiers, and many women had become nurses, but she couldn't imagine how scrawny, sickly Steve would even make it across the ocean, let alone out of the war alive.

A loud horn blasting from outside made both of them jump; Bucky's distant voice called, "Have you two gotten lost? The door's open, you know!"

Steve smiled apologetically at Beatrice and stepped back, holding the front door open for her. She murmured her thanks and hurried outside, determined to get inside the car as quickly as possible so she didn't have to spend any longer stuck outside in the cold than she absolutely had to.

The steps leading down from Steve's door were rickety and very precarious; Beatrice had to grasp the railing tightly as she carefully navigated her way down the icy slope, very aware of Steve right behind her and Bucky waiting in the car, a shiny black Ford sedan that looked more expensive than any automobile she had ever been in.

It had been early morning when she'd stumbled out onto the street with Henry in her arms; now it was sunset, pink and orange streaks of light shooting across the sky. She vaguely remembered Bucky mentioning something about Christmas Eve—of course, she had been planning to let Christmas pass by without a second thought, but now that it had been mentioned she felt as if she ought to give the boys a thank-you gift before they parted ways once again. At least now she knew where Steve lived; once she was settled in another apartment, hopefully with her brother, she would have to think of some way to repay them. Perhaps she could make supper for them—if Steve's mother was dead, he probably didn't know how to cook very well—or clean the place—

Beatrice thankfully reached the ground without incident, the blowing snow flying up into her eyes and whipping her hair around her face, and was about to climb in the backseat when she saw Bucky reach over and push open the passenger side door through the darkly tinted window, that wicked grin back on his face. "Get in here, doll," he ordered Beatrice before shooting a sly grin to Steve, who had appeared beside Beatrice. "Sorry, pal," he called to his friend. "But you're not as nice to look at."

Beatrice blushed; no boy had ever complimented her on her appearance before. For his part, Steve seemed agreeable enough; he got into the backseat without complaint, and Beatrice cautiously climbed into the passenger seat next to Bucky. As soon as the door shut behind her, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal and the car shot forward, leaving the rows of crumbling redbrick tenements behind. Beatrice noted that they were in Flatbush, not far away from Church Avenue. At least Steve hadn't had to bring her very far. It was on the other side of Brooklyn from her apartment in Bushwick, and she guessed that must have been why she had only encountered him once before. Their school had encompassed students from a large part of Brooklyn, and it was rare that she'd seen the same person twice.

"So why were you on Church Avenue?" Beatrice asked curiously, glancing at Steve in the mirror. Bucky burst out laughing, the sound rich and carefree in the dying light.

Steve, she noted, blushed quite easily: a light shade of pink colored his cheeks and neck as he averted his gaze, apparently fixated on something fascinating outside. "I…had business in the area," he mumbled. Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was something almost protective in the way he looked at Steve, like the smaller boy was his brother.

Beatrice thought back to the moments just before she'd fallen unconscious, before Steve had asked her if she was all right. She'd heard a loud slam against a nearby wall, and the ugly bruise under his eye looked fresh…but what had he been getting into a fight for in the first place? "Oh," was all she said, glancing out her own window; the snowbanks piled along the street were so bright that her eyes hurt just looking at them.

"Steve has no concept of the idea of a losing battle," Bucky said, a tight smile on his face. He met Beatrice's eyes very briefly, and there was no humor in them. She wondered if her appearance had been part of a greater argument. "Is this the orphanage?" he asked, changing tones so quickly that she was taken aback; she hadn't noticed they were already on Church Avenue. A large house that had obviously been built in the previous century stood on a street corner, its turrets and spires reaching up into the sky looking grand amidst the dull, industrial buildings that surrounded it. Yet it also seemed grim and forbidding somehow, like Dracula's castle—or perhaps that was just how Beatrice's mind interpreted it.

"Yes, it is," she said, although both Bucky's question and her answer had been unnecessary: the Brooklyn Home for Orphaned Children was the only one in the entire borough. Her heart quickening at the thought of seeing Henry again, she was out of the car and onto the sidewalk before she remembered Sarah's coat. Turning quizzically back to the car, she began to shrug it off her shoulders, already feeling the numbness in her fingers that she guessed was the beginning stages of frostbite—but that didn't matter; she had to find Henry, she just  _had_ to—but Steve had already rolled down his window and was shaking his head at her. "Keep it," he called to her. "It looks…very nice on you." And then he turned even redder than the tomatoes in Mrs. Banner's victory garden.

"Take care, doll," Bucky said, leaning across the seat to flash her a disarming grin. "Don't take a nap in an alleyway again, you hear?"

With some disappointment, Beatrice realized that they weren't going to join her. Of course…there was no reason for them to stay with her. They had helped her and driven her to where she'd said she wanted to go. She swallowed and tried to look confident as she thanked them one more time. "I promise I'll pay you back somehow," she told both of them earnestly, but looking especially at Steve. "Thank you so much—you saved my life, you honestly did."

"Anything I can do to help, ma'am," Steve said graciously.

"If I ever see you again, please call me Beatrice," she said, surprised herself at her own forwardness, before steeling herself and turning her back on the car.  _Henry_ , she thought doggedly, and refusing to think about where she would spend the night, she walked into the orphanage.

* * *

As soon as Beatrice disappeared, Steve leaned forward, his tone pleading. "We can't just leave her there, Buck."

Bucky glanced at Steve in the mirror, his face completely serious. "We're not," he said, and nodded to the passenger seat. "Get in."

Steve was clearly baffled, but obediently did as he was told, climbing into the seat that the dark-haired girl had just vacated. While Bucky waited for another car to pass, he explained, "I know Pryce is the landlord of a tenement in Bushwick. If I can't talk any sense into him, you pick a fight, okay?" There was a faint smile on his face now as he grinned down at Steve, who was used to this dichotomy: Bucky often oscillated between being overly protective of him and making sly, offhand comments. As long as the situation was under Bucky's control, he was more relaxed. He often joked that he couldn't leave Steve alone for more than an hour or he would pick a fight with the person who swatted a fly. That was how it had always been: Steve started fights and Bucky finished them.

They drove in silence for about five minutes, the air heavy with unspoken words, until Bucky finally asked, "What the hell were you doing on Church Avenue, anyway?"

Steve looked out the window at the brownstone buildings flashing past, avoiding his best friend's gaze. "I was going to the cemetery," he said quietly; there was no need to elaborate on exactly who he was planning to visit. "But then I saw these guys crowding around an alley…when I got closer I saw that somebody was on the ground. They would probably have tried to rob her, or worse, so I intervened. I guess they didn't really care enough to stick around." When Bucky didn't reply right away, he added, a bit defensively, "What would you have done?"

"The same thing," Bucky admitted. "Still, you shoulda brought her to the hospital or something. Most gals don't appreciate waking up in a guy's apartment with no idea how they got there, even if he did save her life. Listen, if you were that desperate, you should have asked me for advice, pal! I think Connie's got a friend—" Now he was sounding like the old Bucky again.

"Buck, stop," Steve said seriously. "It wasn't like that, and you know it. I would never do that to—"

Bucky sighed dramatically, pretending to be disappointed. They had entered Bushwick now, and the buildings were getting closer together, the people scruffier, the streets narrower. "I just worry about you, Steve," he admitted, his tone more serious than his expression. "Someday you're going to get caught up in something way over your head, and I'm not gonna be there to help."

Steve's mind flashed back to his mother's funeral the previous year and Bucky's declaration that he would always be there for him. He was always grateful for the help, but eager to prove his worth by himself. Again he reiterated, "I can take care of myself."

"But it sure helps, doesn't it?" Bucky asked. Steve reluctantly nodded, and he clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Just keep that in mind." They were no longer speaking of Beatrice anymore. In a lower voice, he added, "We'll visit her soon. She was like a mom to me, too."

Steve smiled at him, unable to put his gratitude into words. More often than not, if he wasn't at home or picking a fight, Bucky would find him in the cemetery next to his parents' graves. Neither boy ever commented on the ritual, but Bucky would always bring some food and they would spend the afternoon there, saying little but still spending time together. Steve knew that Bucky would much rather go dancing or see a movie, but he chose to spend the time with him instead.

Bucky pulled onto a side street and parked the car between two snowbanks in front of a tenement building that looked horribly rundown and about to collapse in on itself. Still, there was a park visible across the road and it was close to the trolley line—not a terrible choice for working-class families. A rusted sign swinging in the wind read,  _Pryce's Apartments._

"How did you know this was here?" Steve asked as he climbed out of the car and onto the curb; one of Bucky's strides was equal to several of Steve's, and he was around the car before Steve was even on the sidewalk.

"Dad lets a few things slip after he has a glass of whiskey." Bucky grinned slyly. "Good thing I pay attention."

A crowd of men were clustered around the side of the building, several of them holding heavy metal buckets. As the two boys strode over to them, there was a break in the gathering and the ground-floor apartment was briefly visible—someone had broken the window with a hammer and water was gushing out in a steady stream.

"What happened here?" Bucky asked in his most authoritative voice; he could take charge when he wanted to, and none of the men questioned that he was at least twenty years younger than any of them. Steve tagged along behind him, already out of breath.

"Some idiot didn't replace the windows after the last storm and flooded the basement," a gruff older man explained, crossing his arms. "Now the entire foundation of the building is threatened. Fortunately I was able to get some help, but it'll be months before these rooms are inhabitable again."

"What about the previous tenants?" Bucky asked, pretending to have no knowledge of the situation. "What happened to them?"

"That is none of your busi—Barnes, what the devil are you doing here?" Recognition dawned on Pryce's face as he glared at Bucky. "I evicted your family a decade ago. Must be nice living up in Brooklyn Heights, isn't it? Happy you won the lawsuit?"

"Very," Bucky said pleasantly; while Pryce got more and more worked up, he was infuriatingly calm. "But, if I remember correctly, it is your obligation as the landlord to find somewhere for the tenants to stay in the meantime."

Mr. Pryce turned an ugly shade of puce.  _"She_ put you up to this, didn't she? Well, you can tell her that I won't find anywhere for her to live until she pays for the repairs."

"Why are you doing this?" Steve burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. "Why can't you help her?"

"Because her good-for-nothing father couldn't pay the damn rent, and it was a mistake to let that family live there for as long as they did," Pryce snapped. "I should have evicted them once I learned they couldn't install new windows."

"Then you should have installed them yourself!" Steve argued. "You own the building. If you knew that was going to happen and if you knew they couldn't pay for it—"

They had crossed a line; Pryce took a threatening step towards them, brandishing a hammer. "I suggest that both of you get out of here before I call the police. And tell your friend that if I get my hands on her again, she'll be  _very_ sorry she crossed me."

"Come  _on,_ Steve," Bucky said in his ear, and forcibly dragged him away, gripping onto his shoulder tightly. Some of the men watching chuckled, which only served to fuel Steve's rage. By the time they got back to the car, the interior temperature had dropped rapidly, and their breaths came out as misty clouds.

"Well, that was a mistake," Bucky declared as he turned the ignition. "I'd forgotten what a piece of work he was."

Steve was still glaring in the direction of the tenement. "It was worth a try," he said. He had calmed down somewhat, but his face was still red. "I'm going to go to the police."

"And what are they going to do?" Bucky asked, logical as always. "They're not going to waste their time on one landlord. Besides, they might even decide that he's right and demand the money."

"Still, there has to be something we can do," Steve muttered. He glanced sideways at his friend. "I didn't know Pryce was once your family's landlord."

Bucky shrugged as he pulled back out onto the street. "It's not something I advertise. We didn't always live in Brooklyn Heights. How d'you think I met you? I would have gone to some fancy private school instead of George Washington. Once my dad was able to prove that we were unfairly evicted, he took it to court, and won a nice amount of money to put us in a better neighborhood."

"Then maybe Beatrice can do the same," Steve suggested, but Bucky shook his head.

"They only took my dad's case on because he'd lived in the area for years and had a family. They're not gonna listen to her, no matter who she knows." They lapsed into silence again, until Steve spoke up.

"Buck, you know, she has nowhere to go, and I have a spare bedroom…" Steve trailed off hesitantly, meeting Bucky's eyes, who grinned. "Are you asking my permission?"

Steve sighed heavily. "No, of course not. I was asking your opinion on it. I wouldn't ask her to pay rent or anything—just until she finds somewhere else to stay."

"I knew you'd do something like this, Rogers." Bucky gave the ghost of a smirk. "Hey, if you're living on your own with a girl, I'm not gonna tell anyone. Besides, she seems harmless enough."

"Well," Steve said as he glanced at a lonely string of lights strung up on a passing tree, "It is Christmas Eve."

* * *

The second she walked into the orphanage, Beatrice was met with a cacophony of cries, shouts, and laughter. She stood, stunned, in the doorway while a small boy slid down the railing of the steep staircase directly in front of her, whooping with joy. Seeming not to notice her, he landed lithely on his feet and disappeared into an adjacent room still giggling madly.

She let the front door swing shut behind her, unable to help herself from peering through the frosted glass panes as she did—Bucky's car was already gone. God, she hadn't thanked them properly, had she? How was one supposed to thank someone who had saved their life? Before she could mull over that question, a frazzled, raven-haired woman came hurrying down the stairs, calling, "Adam!" in a frustrated tone. She came screeching to a halt once she saw Beatrice, who pointed wordlessly at the door through which the boy had disappeared.

"Thank you very much, ma'am. The reception is right that way," she explained, pointing down a nearly-concealed hallway next to the stairs. "But I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow. We closed an hour ago."

Beatrice's heart sank right down to her feet. "Please, this is important," she said, taking a step forward. "I'm looking for my brother. He was brought here by mistake earlier today—"

"I promise if you come back tomorrow, we'll be able to look into the situation," the woman explained. "I am just a maid here and am not authorized to speak about any residents."

"Just please tell me—was an infant brought here today? A boy around six months old with red hair and green eyes—his name is Henry Hartley," Beatrice begged, not caring anymore how desperate she sounded. All she wanted was to see her brother again and hold him in her arms, knowing they were both alive and safe.

"Ma'am, I cannot—" the maid explained, injecting a bit of harshness in her tone this time, but not before another voice interrupted her.

"Beatrice Hartley?" someone asked from behind her. Beatrice spun around and came face-to-face with Mrs. Banner. The older woman did not look pleased to see her. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm trying to find Henry," Beatrice said; out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the maid disappear into the other room, but there was nothing she could do about it. "Please tell me what happened to him."

"He was adopted not an hour after I brought him here, I'm told," Mrs. Banner said. Beatrice's heart stopped beating in horror. "Don't look so upset, dear. The man who took him was very kind and promised he would take good care of him. He was asking about you, too, but I'm afraid I told him I had no idea of your whereabouts."

"What was his name?" Beatrice asked desperately. "Did he say where he lived?"

"He said his name was Ivan. As for where he went, I have no idea. It was none of my business," Mrs. Banner said, regarding her with a disapproving stare. "At least you're wearing a coat now. You don't look so well—I'll bring you to the hospital."

"No, I don't need the hospital," Beatrice insisted, fighting not to let her voice rise up into hysteria. "You don't understand—I need Henry."

"Come with me," was all Mrs. Banner said, and with her heart flip-flopping between anger, dejection, and panic, Beatrice had nothing else to do but numbly follow her back outside, feeling angry tears prick at her eyes. She knew the woman had no malicious intent, but it was difficult to think rationally when she was in so much turmoil.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me about them?" she asked desperately as they stepped back out onto the snowy street. The first stars had begun to appear in the clear, dark sky, and the weather was much calmer than it had been the previous night. Unfortunately, Beatrice couldn't appreciate any of it.

"Not any more than I already have," Mrs. Banner said. "I understand your desperation to find your brother, but you are in no position to look after an infant at the moment."

"But he's  _family—"_

"Where would you live?" Mrs. Banner asked, and Beatrice had no answer. She hated the knowing glint in the old woman's eyes. As much as she loathed to admit it, Mrs. Banner was right.

"Try getting everything sorted out before you search for him," Mrs. Banner added, with slightly more kindness in her voice. "Besides, I have every confidence that he is being well taken care of."

"How do you know?"

"Ivan said he was your uncle."

Beatrice stopped walking, staring in disbelief at her.  _I don't have an uncle,_ she wanted to say, but stopped short when she realized that wasn't entirely true. Elena did have a brother, but rarely mentioned him and Beatrice had assumed they'd had a falling-out. She knew nothing about him, not even his name. So why was he in New York? How had he known to find Henry at the orphanage, and why hadn't he shown himself before? Most important, where was he?

"Ivan? His name is Ivan?" Beatrice asked—that was more than her mother had ever told her.

Mrs. Banner nodded. "That is what he said—I believe he was Russian. He looked exactly like your mother, with the same red hair and green eyes. He was her perfect twin—that is part of the reason why I gave him up so readily. Unfortunately, he gave no contact address for you to reach him."

Before Beatrice could answer, a car pulled up beside them, its headlights illuminating the entire street. When the passenger door opened, she felt a strange mixture of excitement and relief as Steve Rogers climbed out and walked over toward her, his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face, while Bucky Barnes got out of the driver's seat and sauntered toward them.

"Hello, Beatrice," Steve said; his smile was every bit as bright as the headlights on the car. "Ma'am," he acknowledged Mrs. Banner, who looked taken aback. "Did you have any luck finding your brother?"

Beatrice shook her head. "I'm told that he was adopted by my uncle—but I don't know where he is now, you see. I'm a bit lost. What are you doing here?"

"My dad would disown me if he found out that I left his old friend's daughter with nowhere to go," Bucky jumped in, with a wicked grin. Beatrice had the feeling that wasn't his only motive.

"Actually, I came back to ask you…I know you have nowhere to go, and I wanted to say that you can stay at my place, if you want. Until you find somewhere else to live." Steve was stammering a bit—clearly he wasn't used to asking women such things. "You wouldn't have to pay rent or anything."

And, looking at him and Bucky in the lamplight, Beatrice had never wanted to hug anyone more in her life. If she had somewhere to stay, she could get a job and save up money—get her life sorted out, as Mrs. Banner had advised—and then look for her uncle. Of course, that didn't stop her from searching for him sooner than that.

"Dear, this is quite abrupt," Mrs. Banner said. "Who are these men?"

"She's with us," Bucky replied, his voice ringing loud and clear in the cold winter air. Beatrice met his eyes, and he gave her quite possibly the most genuine smile that she'd seen from him yet.

Mrs. Banner adjusted her glasses and looked sternly over at her. "Is this true, Miss Hartley?"

And despite herself, for the first time since her mother died, Beatrice felt the beginnings of something like hope. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is."


	4. IV

For as long as Beatrice could remember, the world had always been eerily quiet on Christmas morning. There were no shouting voices or car horns in the streets, no noise except for the carolers who would come and go in steady streams throughout the day. This Christmas morning—her first Christmas away from home—was no exception. As she lay in Sarah Rogers's brass bed with the blankets pulled tightly over her and her face turned to the window, she could hear nothing except for the distant chime of church bells.

Despite Steve's assertion that she could stay for as long as she wanted, Beatrice still couldn't help but feel like an intruder. She was alone and desperate, with no choice but to either starve on the streets or accept help. After giving Mrs. Banner Steve's address in case her uncle Ivan wanted to find her, she had gotten into the car and Bucky had dropped them both off at Steve's building. Beatrice had been so exhausted and overwhelmed from the events of the day that she had fallen into bed right away, her sleep deep and dreamless. The second she opened her eyes, however, all of her anxiety had rushed straight back. Staying in a near-stranger's apartment was one thing—though they'd agreed they would pretend to be cousins if anyone asked—but not knowing whether Henry was in good hands was another. Mrs. Banner seemed confident that Ivan was a decent man, but Beatrice wondered if her mother's silence about him had been more telling than she knew. If they'd had a good relationship, why had she never mentioned him?

She dragged her hand through her hair and slowly climbed out of bed, her bare toes curling at the feel of the cold floorboards. Beatrice drifted over to the window and rested her forehead against the glass, drawing light shapes on it with her fingertips. When she breathed on them they frosted up again. For a moment, when she shifted her gaze, she saw her pale, freckled reflection—all wide hazel eyes and dark auburn hair, in stark contrast with the white nightgown she wore: not her own, of course. Steve had told her that she was welcome to borrow any of Sarah's clothes, and sure enough, Beatrice had found nearly an entire wardrobe still hanging up in the closet. Still, she knew she would have to buy her own clothes soon; she couldn't accept  _everything_ that Steve offered. He had been kind enough as it was.

On the street below, Beatrice watched a black car pull up and a man dressed in military uniform emerged from the driver's seat. She could see that he was clutching a telegram in his hand as he walked up to the row of tenements opposite and knocked on one of the doors. It was barely a second before the door opened and a beautiful blonde young woman who couldn't be any older than Beatrice opened it, still in her nightclothes. The man held out the letter and said something to her, and the woman's stunning face crumpled into one of horror. Her face dropped into her hands, and Beatrice had to turn away from the private moment. Doubtless she had received a letter that her sweetheart had been killed in action, and on Christmas Day, no less.

Beatrice felt a rush of relief that Henry was far too young to be caught up in the war, and then hated herself for her own selfishness. The soldiers in Europe would not be safe in a warm bedroom and listening to church bells.  _Stop pitying yourself,_ Beatrice thought sharply, walking over to the closet to find a dress. Her father had fought in a war, and it had cost him his sanity. Beatrice couldn't think of a fate much worse than that.

She selected a mossy green dress from the wardrobe, hoping it was festive enough, and was just buttoning the collar when she became aware that an acrid scent was quickly filling up the room. Her mind immediately jumped to a fire—what a cruel irony it would be if she was driven out by a flood one day and a fire the next—but when she darted out of the bedroom and into the small kitchen, she found Steve standing in front of the stove, a tower of smoke pouring out of the pan he was holding. Beatrice ran to the sink and grabbed the nearest glass, filling it to the brim with water before dumping it over the burner. Orange flame was already beginning to lick the sides of the pan, and as Steve jerked his hands away she saw that his fingertips were burned.

"Give me your hands," Beatrice commanded, throwing aside propriety for the moment. John had once stumbled and fallen into the fireplace after drinking too much, and while Steve's hands weren't nearly as bad as her father's had been, she knew how to take care of burns. He obediently held them out to her, and she took both of his wrists in hers—they were sharp and bony, the tips digging into her palm—and held them under the faucet while leaning over to grab a cloth from the edge of the sink. She methodically wrapped it around his hands, binding them together like handcuffs.

"Does it hurt?" she asked him. They were standing very close together, so close that Beatrice could feel Steve's waist pressing against the side of her hip. She had never been so close to a boy before who was unrelated to her, and the moment was not as earth-shattering as she would have expected.

Steve shrugged. "I've had worse."

"That didn't answer my question," Beatrice said pointedly. She turned off the faucet and threw the dishcloth in the pool of soapy water that had collected at the bottom of the sink. "Are you in pain?"

"Not really," Steve said. Beatrice raised an eyebrow, and he sheepishly relented. "A bit. It's nothing time won't fix."

"And honey," she added. "Do you have any around here?"

"Yeah, there's some in the cupboard," Steve replied. He was looking at her as if he wasn't quite sure that she was mentally all there, but thankfully he kept silent. Beatrice strode across the kitchen and opened the cupboard; there were a few (old, judging by the looks of them) spices scattered amidst larger piles of dust, but Beatrice spotted a jar of half-used honey on the very top shelf. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it, but finally managed to knock it down and caught it deftly in one hand. Steve watched her bemusedly as she slid the jar across the table to him. He had already somehow untied the knot in the cloth without her noticing, and Beatrice snatched it up and went to wash it in the sink. Steve, bless him, had taken the honey without asking any further questions and was rubbing it on his fingertips. "This does work," he exclaimed, rather more surprised than was strictly necessary in Beatrice's opinion. "I'll have to remember that for next time."

And Beatrice already knew there would most certainly be a  _next time._ She'd barely known him for twenty-four hours and the boy got into more scrapes than she had believed any normal human was capable of. "And put some arnica on your bruises," she added. "It'll make the swelling go down faster."

"Thanks." Steve grinned sheepishly at her, rubbing the tips of his singed hair. "My mom would have loved you. She was always going on about using natural remedies instead of medicine." He stopped, looking lost for a moment, like a young boy, and then seemed to shake himself out of it before Beatrice could break the sudden silence. "How did you know to use honey? I never woulda guessed  _that_."

"I learned to be creative from a very young age." Beatrice tried not to grimace. "My dad would often become injured and was unable to take care of himself. My mom used to say that I should become a nurse, but…" Now it was her turn to trail off, unsure how to phrase the explanation. After Lloyd's Dental closed, she had made plans to go overseas and even attended a recruitment training course sponsored by the Red Cross when Elena became pregnant again. So Beatrice had stayed in New York to protect her mother and unborn sibling from John's drunken rages. Of course, that hadn't lasted long: Elena had died in childbirth, leaving Beatrice to care for Henry on her own. Six months later, the morning after one of his nights at the bar, she had found John dead in the parlor. Alcohol poisoning, the coroner told her. It was nobody's fault but his own. "Well. It just didn't work out, I guess," she added lamely. "Where there's a will, there's a way, right?"

Steve was looking at her with something almost like understanding in his eyes. "I believe it," he said, with more fire in his voice than Beatrice was expecting. "The trouble is getting everyone else convinced of that."

Beatrice had the feeling he was no longer talking about her, and wondered if it had something to do with Steve's desire to become a soldier. But instead of asking him, she turned to the burnt pan and said, "I'm afraid to ask what you were trying to accomplish here besides testing how hot the stove can get."

He grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was  _trying_ to make bacon and eggs, since it's Christmas, but it didn't quite turn out. Bucky's a much better cook than me."

"Well, I think it's still edible," Beatrice said, peering inside the pan. She wasn't entirely convinced of this, since the eggs were more brown than white and the bacon was little more than burnt crisps, but it had suddenly come to her attention that she was so hungry she would eat almost anything. Steve already had two plates lined up next to the stove, and she divided the food up equally before sitting down at the table and attacking it. Beatrice wolfed it down so quickly she couldn't even tell what it tasted like, finishing her breakfast twice as fast as Steve. She only realized later she must have looked like a slob, but thankfully Steve didn't seem to mind.

"I'm going over to Bucky's place tonight for supper," he said, slowly pushing his eggs around on the plate. "He said that you're welcome to come along, and his dad wants to meet you, but if you don't want to..."

Beatrice was momentarily blindsided by the notion that Steve would allow her to stay in his flat by herself. His inherent trust made her feel unworthy of it. Perhaps a deity had been actively trying to  _control_ her life rather than wreaking havoc on it; how else would she have been lucky enough to find the boys at this precise time? She almost denied Steve's offer on the basis that she didn't want to intrude on the Barnes family, but the word, "Yes," was out of her mouth before she had time to really consider it. She liked Steve, she supposed she liked Bucky, and the thought of having a real Christmas dinner, with roast turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes, made her mouth water at the very thought. "I would love to."

Steve's face broke out into a wide smile. "Great," he said. "You don't have to wear anything special. Bucky'll be here around five o'clock."

Beatrice nodded, although she made a mental note to take a bath before they left; her hair was impossibly messy. "I promise to get some new clothes," she told him. "I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of your hospitality."

"I promise you aren't." Steve looked mournfully at his uneaten food, pushing the plate away. "That wasn't very good, was it?"

"I didn't mind it at all," Beatrice said truthfully. She stood up and gathered both of their plates before going to the sink to wash them. She was so used to being the mother for John and Henry that it was by now second nature for her to act as the role of housekeeper for everyone. But Steve gently caught her by the wrist, pulling her away from the counter.

"You don't need to do anything around here unless you really can't stand the mess," he admitted. "I can do all of this on my own, no problem."

"Steve, you're letting a girl you barely know stay here without paying any rent," Beatrice said, half-amused, half-aghast. "The least I can do is help out here and there."

"Listen," he said in a low voice, "I know what it feels like to have no one. I was almost in your position. After my mom died, I thought I would lose this place. But…but Bucky helped out with the rent and stuff. I wouldn't have been able to make it if it wasn't for him. I have a spare room, and you have nowhere else to go."

So this was the truth: he was only being kind to her out of pity. Beatrice glanced away from him, more disappointed than she thought she'd be. "Thank you," was all she said.

Steve smiled at her, as radiant as the sun. "I'd better give you a key. I know I have a spare around here somewhere—Bucky has one too, but in case you ever lose it, there's an extra under the brick by the front door."

Beatrice couldn't think of a response that properly encompassed the overwhelming gratitude and relief she felt. After her mother had died, she had been lost and directionless, as if she was a boat that had suddenly lost its bearings at sea. Now, even despite the loss of Henry, she was beginning to feel like she was getting her bearings back. There was something so undeniably  _true_ about Steve that Beatrice had trusted him almost immediately. Whether or not he merely felt sorry for her, she knew she owed him her life, and she would be lying dead in that alley if it wasn't for him.

"I'll go see if I can find the key," Steve was saying, and promptly disappeared; he moved surprisingly fast. Her curiosity awakened, Beatrice followed him out of the kitchen. "I left it in my room," he called, and Beatrice saw that he was already inside his own bedroom. Her mouth went uncomfortably dry—she had never been in a boy's room before.

Beatrice hovered awkwardly in the doorway, unsure where to stand. Steve had opened his curtains so that dull gray light shone inside, pooling onto the floor. It was horribly messy—the bedsheets were thrown back and in disarray; the bookshelves were stuffed full to the brim and there were even stacks of them on the floor, and the desk was covered in papers and splattered with paint. Steve was scattering the papers even more as he searched for the key. He seemed completely unabashed that his room looked like a tornado had just passed through it.

"Do you paint?" Beatrice asked despite herself; she took a step forward to get a better look, but Steve had already shuffled the papers aside.

"Yes," he said, the tips of his ears turning pink. "When I can afford it—they were a Christmas present from Mom a few years back, but I prefer sketching. I've drawn for a couple comic books at a studio in Manhattan. The pay's not bad."

"Comic books, huh?" Beatrice asked. Feeling braver, she took another step into the room. "You must be very talented."

"I don't think so," Steve said, straightening up with a pile of papers in his arms. "I think the guy just feels sorry for me." He held them out to Beatrice. "Do you mind holding these? The paint is still wet and I don't want to spill it."

"Of course," she said, carefully gathering them up. The one on top showed the view from the fire escape at the back of Steve's apartment, down to the rows of laundry strung between windows and the distant view of the bridge and city beyond. It was as perfectly detailed as the ones Beatrice saw for sale in shop windows. "Oh, I don't think anyone would let you work for them just out of pity," she said, slightly in awe. At the bottom corner was Steve's scribbled signature, with two lines of poetry above it. Beatrice brought the paper closer to her face so she could see it:

_Whate'er is Born of Mortal Birth_

_Must be consumed with the Earth_

"William Blake?" she asked, glancing back up and smiling slightly at Steve's flustered demeanor. "I take it you're a fan of poetry, then?"

Now he looked embarrassed. "I guess," he said awkwardly. "I just—I was looking out the window one day, and I thought about all the people who live around here, and how no matter how much money you have or how powerful you are, whether or not you're the mayor or just a guy like me, we're all going to die eventually."

Beatrice wasn't sure how to react. "That sounds very…cheerful."

Steve seemed to realize he had said too much, and immediately shut up like a clam. He turned back to his searching. Beatrice was embarrassed;  _she_ had said the wrong thing. "Steve—" she began, not even sure herself why she had such a desire to comfort him, but he had already let out a sound of triumph and stood up, a rusted key clutched in his palm.

"I knew it was around here somewhere," he announced. "And I found this!" He held out a necklace on a fine gold chain; a heart-shaped ruby sparkling in the light gave the impression that it was actually beating.

"That's beautiful," Beatrice breathed. But why hadn't he sold it? It would pay his rent for at least half a year.

"It was a wedding gift from Dad to Mom," Steve explained, looking at it thoughtfully. "She wore it until the day she died. I know it's gotta be worth something, but I'm still keeping it. I'd get beaten up if  _I_  wore it." He gave Beatrice a crooked smile before slipping it into his pocket. "Did you have anything you need to do today?"

Beatrice closed her fingers around the key, feeling the serrated edges press into her skin like the touch of a knife. "I was going to go to the library and search for records of my uncle," she admitted ruefully. "But I guess that'll have to wait until tomorrow."

Now Steve's grin grew even wider. "No, it doesn't," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Follow me," he instructed, and nearly ran out of the room. Beatrice groaned and went to fetch her coat. She wondered how on earth Bucky kept him in line.

* * *

The day was cold and windy, but at least it wasn't snowing. Beatrice's hair whipped around her face as she followed Steve down the street, passing a group of jovial carolers as they did. She felt like the little match girl, and studiously avoided glancing into alleyways. Houses were lit up inside, their lights golden and warm, and Christmas trees were visible through the curtains. The war clearly hadn't stopped many people from enjoying the holidays.

Steve moved as quickly as a ghost through the crowds of people leaving church and children having snowball fights; Beatrice narrowly avoided getting hit in the head by a rogue pile of snow. She brought her hands up to her cheeks; they were rosy and cold, but there was only a faint tingling in her fingers and toes, nothing at all like the numbness of the previous day. "Steve, where were we going?" she called out to him after ten minutes, but her cry was lost on the howling wind. He seemed to hear her, though, and just called back, "You'll see!"

Beatrice was beginning to feel very envious of the people who walked past them carrying mugs of hot chocolate when the tall spires of the public library became visible in the distance. Steve didn't go to the front doors, however; he crept around the side of the building instead. Beatrice hesitantly followed him, going from bemused to incredulous when he knelt down in front of a basement window and gently pried it open with his fingers.

"What are you  _doing?"_  she hissed, glancing around to see if there were any witnesses. "You can't—"

"Actually," Steve replied, squeezing himself through the tiny gap and disappearing into the darkness beyond, "I can." When Beatrice refused to move, he called up to her, "Come on! I've been doing this for years and I've never been caught. Besides, we're not taking anything."

A day ago, Beatrice would never have believed him, but in her desperation to find Henry she was willing to try anything, and so she knelt down and, bending her legs, slid down through the opening where the window had previously been.

After a long second of nothingness, her feet found solid ground again, and she stumbled a few steps forward before she felt Steve grab her by the elbows to steady her. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice sounding oddly constricted, and Beatrice nodded before realizing he couldn't see her. At least he couldn't see her blush.

"I'm fine," she confirmed. It was much warmer in here than outside, and very humid. The air had a musty, damp quality, and yet again she wondered what she had gotten herself into.

"The light is over here somewhere," Steve's voice said, now drifting farther away. "I just have to climb up on this table to reach it." Beatrice waited with bated breath—until there was an almighty crash from somewhere in front of her just as the room flooded with light.

"Steve! Are you all right?" she exclaimed, blinking furiously so that her eyes would adjust more quickly. They were standing in a long room that must have spanned the entire basement of the library, filing cabinets pressed up against every available inch of wall space. Steve was sitting on top of an overturned table, while a dim lightbulb swung on the ceiling.

"I'm fine," Steve said, taking the hand Beatrice offered as she pulled him up. "I misjudged where the edge of that table was."

"Remember, use honey for bruises," Beatrice said doubtfully as Steve wiped the dirt off his jacket. With their combined strength (which, admittedly, wasn't very much) they managed to right the table so that it looked untouched, save for the clouds of debris that had puffed up. Beatrice sneezed violently as she inhaled a cloud of dust.

"If your uncle ever lived in New York, there should be some sort of file on him," Steve, who apparently had a remarkable ability to recover quickly, was saying as he walked over to the cabinets. "A birth announcement or a wedding announcement…"

Beatrice couldn't believe that they were actually breaking into Brooklyn's archives, but Steve actually looked as if he was enjoying himself. She wondered what Bucky would think about that. "My mother was born here," she told him. "I would guess that my uncle was as well."

"What did you say his name was again?"

"Ivan," Beatrice answered. "I think it would have been Ivan Romanov." She was about to move to the "R" section when her eyes caught on the "H" cabinet. She had never considered looking in the archives for more information on her family before, and after stealing a glance at Steve, who was otherwise preoccupied, moved toward them.

There was an enormous stack of folders in the drawer, luckily sorted in alphabetical order—Beatrice sent a quick message of thanks to whomever's job it was to keep the archives organized—and thumbed through the countless obituaries, birth announcements, old newspapers…there were records in Brooklyn dating back to the eighteenth century. Her heart immediately began to pound quicker when she saw the name  _Hartley,_ and that it was a newspaper clipping from 1920:

 _Mr. and Mrs. John Hartley of Bushwick welcomed a daughter, Beatrice Rose, at 10:23 AM yesterday, March twenty-third. Mr. Hartley previously served in the 105th Infantry during the Great War and currently works at the Navy Yard. Mrs. Elena Hartley (born Romanova) has been a seamstress in the borough for many years._ In fine print under the paragraph was the addendum  _This announcement was placed in the_ Brooklyn Daily Eagle _at the request of Maj. George M. Barnes._

Beatrice read the clipping several times, an odd feeling squeezing her chest that felt something like grief. To dissipate it, she called over to Steve, "Is Bucky's father named George by any chance?"

"Yes," Steve replied. He waved another piece of paper at her. "I can't find anything on Ivan, but I do think I found where he works."

Beatrice nearly tripped over the table in her rush to cross the room. Sure enough, Steve had found an article detailing the opening of Stark Industries three years beforehand, and that Howard Stark started with a team including Russian strategist Ivan Romanov. "Strategist?" she asked, smoothing her thumb over the paper. "What does that mean?"

"Spy, probably," Steve answered. Beatrice was astonished. She couldn't imagine any of her family members doing such a thing—but then again, it might explain why Elena never spoke about him.

"So a spy adopted my brother?" she wailed.

"Calm down," Steve told her soothingly. "According to this, he works for Howard Stark—he's a brilliant inventor. At least this means he's probably living right here in New York."

"Then we'll have to go into the city and find him," Beatrice said resolutely.

"There's a fireworks display on top of the Stark Industries building every New Year's Eve," Steve said mildly. "That way we'll have a few days to plan what we're going to do—" He doubled over and broke into a coughing fit before he could finish, bits of dust landing in his hair and turning it almost white.

"Steve?" Beatrice asked cautiously, placing a hand on his shoulder. When he straightened up, he was paler than usual and appeared to be struggling to breathe.

"I'm fine," he said firmly. "The air in here is just triggering my asthma. This happens all the time."

"Then we'll get back outside," Beatrice said just as firmly, and after careful deliberation, folded up her birth announcement and slipped it inside her pocket. She would copy the contents onto a separate paper and return it to the archives as soon as possible.

But as she walked towards the window and wondered how she was going to get back outside, Steve's voice sounded from the other end of the room. His small frame was illuminated in a tiny sliver of light in front of a previously-unseen door. "Where are you going?" he called. "The exit is this way!"

Beatrice's lips curved up into an unwilling grin as she went to follow him.

* * *

The park across from her old tenement building was deserted, save for a few brave squirrels scrounging for food. Beatrice sat on the swings, dragging her feet through the snow. She wasn't exactly certain why she'd decided to come here, but she felt as if she needed to give her childhood home a proper goodbye before she left for good. Steve hadn't questioned why she'd wanted to go back; he seemed to have guessed that she needed to be alone. He'd just made sure she was warm enough and that she knew her way back to Flatbush before he'd gone his own way. Beatrice had watched him disappear, his blond head held high, and mused that she couldn't have found a better roommate. Out of all the boys she had ever met, she had never seen one as decent as Steve Rogers.

She wasn't worried about freezing now that she had a coat and somewhere to go. The building looked exactly the same as it had for two decades; a stranger would never have guessed that several of the rooms had been flooded. There weren't many people celebrating inside, she guessed—the unlucky ones still had to work. Beatrice leaned her cheek against the cold metal of the swing. She didn't mind being cold, not really—it was when she had nothing she could do about it that she hated.

Leaning back slightly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the slip of paper, mouthing along as she read it yet another time. Since John had been a veteran, he'd obviously been deemed important enough for his daughter's birth to be documented in the local newspaper. Beatrice thought of her uncle, working at Stark Industries. Maybe he'd been moving back and forth between Russia and the United States gathering intelligence. It sounded quite exciting, unless he was a triple agent and was really sympathetic towards Russia. Again, why had he wanted to adopt Henry, and why had he been asking about her? Beatrice tried to tell herself that all her questions would be answered when she went to his workplace. Hopefully she would be able to obtain his address and visit him herself.

"Beatrice Hartley," she heard someone say from behind her. Beatrice hurriedly stuffed the paper back into her pocket before jumping off the swings and whirling around. Mrs. Banner stood a ways away from her, dressed in a thick shawl and with her trusty cane in a gnarled hand. She went on a walk every day, whether or not it was a holiday. Beatrice knew she had a son, but that they weren't close enough to be spending the day together.

"Mrs. Banner," she said with a resigned sigh. It figured she had to show up out of nowhere again. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too, child," the woman said, hobbling closer to her. Beatrice worried she might slip and fall on the ice. "I take it you're doing well with your…friend?"

"My cousin, actually," Beatrice said lamely. Mrs. Banner evidently wasn't convinced, but decided not to press the point. "I just wanted to come back here to…to…" She flailed around for something to say. Why  _had_ she come back here?

"I wouldn't have returned if I were you," Mrs. Banner warned. "Pryce threatened to call the police if he ever saw you or your friends again."

"Hang on," Beatrice said, suppressing a stab of fear in her throat. "My  _friends?"_

Mrs. Banner nodded. "The ones you left with. They came here yesterday to try to convince him to allow you back into the building, but he refused."

Beatrice opened her mouth and closed it again, unable to form proper words. Steve and Bucky had driven all the way out here to convince Pryce to let her live in the flat again? Despite the chill in the air, her entire body suddenly felt warm, and she was amazed at the gesture of kindness from two boys she barely knew. She didn't care that they weren't successful. Suddenly, she didn't want to sit in the park wallowing in memories. She wanted to see them again and thank them for what they had done. Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she said, "Mrs. Banner, if you ever see Pryce again, tell him…tell him I'm not coming back. I owe you an apology, too. I know you were just doing what you thought was best for Henry."

Mrs. Banner almost smiled. "I hoped you would understand that, dear. Will you come around for tea sometime?"

"Of course," Beatrice told her. She felt strangely excited, as if she was hovering on the cusp of something bigger than herself, and no matter what she did she was going to fall into it. Again she heard the comforting chime of distant church bells, and now smiled as brightly as she could.


	5. V

When Beatrice arrived back at her new flat— _home_ , she tried to tell herself—ice crystals had burrowed themselves in her hair and clothes, refusing to melt, and she was looking forward to a warm bath and a cup of steaming tea. It was nearing four o'clock, so she had just over an hour to get ready before Bucky arrived.

As she untied her headscarf and walked into the kitchen, she saw that a mug of tea was already waiting for her, and there was still some hot water left in the kettle. Steve must have gone out of his way to specially make one for her, knowing she would be cold when she arrived. Beatrice felt her heart swell in gratitude as she wrapped her hands around the mug, breathing in its warmth. She cast a quick glance around the kitchen, noticing how cluttered it was. Whatever Steve said otherwise, she had to repay him for everything he had done.

But by the time she had finished her tea and rinsed out her mug, Steve was still nowhere in sight. Beatrice even poked her head inside his bedroom to see if he was asleep, but it was empty. Perhaps he had gone out for the afternoon—at least that gave her enough time to get ready and clean up the kitchen as a surprise before he arrived.

She ducked into her room to grab a towel, wrapping it around her shoulders before heading to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, and as she pushed it open a cloud of steam hit her, but the realization didn't fully sink in until she saw Steve already sitting in the bathtub, his clothes neatly folded on the floor beside it.

Beatrice nearly dropped her towel in shock, her hand flying to her mouth as all the blood in her body rushed to her face. She stumbled backwards, and Steve turned around, immediately going just as red as her. "I'm so sorry," Beatrice choked out, feeling sweat already dripping down her neck, and it wasn't just from the humidity. "The door was open and I—" She knew she should avert her eyes, but she was too flustered to speak properly. "I'll just—go…" she stammered, and slipped out of the bathroom before Steve could say anything, closing the door properly behind her. Her heart was hammering so hard that little spots of light were blinking in front of her eyes. In her rush to remove herself as far away from the situation as possible, she walked into the parlor, pressing her hands over her eyes.

Beatrice had never been so mortified in her life. She sat down heavily on the couch and wiped her face with the towel, trying furtively to calm down. She kept replaying the scene over in her head—although exactly  _why_ she wasn't entirely certain—and chided herself for not realizing that Steve was there beforehand. She should have called him before barging into the bathroom like she owned the place and wasn't just living there on borrowed time. Maybe the door  _had_ been closed and she just hadn't noticed.

But even through her embarrassment, Beatrice couldn't deny that seeing him had given her a strange sort of thrill—the sight hadn't been entirely unpleasant to her. She wondered if this was a normal reaction for all girls, or if she was just an anomaly. God, how would she ever face Steve after this? She wouldn't blame him if he threw her out right then and there.

The sound of a key rattling in the front door made her look up. Steve still hadn't emerged out of the bathroom. Beatrice sat up straighter and crossed her fingers that it was Bucky and not a burglar who had found the poorly hidden key. She immediately searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon, and came up with nothing except for a picture frame on the table that depicted Steve as a young child, standing in what Beatrice recognized as Central Park and throwing bread to the ducks in the lake. His hair was ruffled and there was a wide smile on his face. It had to have been taken around the time she had first encountered him, when he was five or six years old.

Beatrice didn't want to destroy such a nice picture, but when it came down to that or death, she wasn't about to choose the latter. She snatched it up and held it protectively against her chest just as the door swung open. Beatrice lifted her arm to throw it just as Bucky strode into the room, his expression instantly going from jovial to bemused when he spotted her. He stopped mid-whistle and raised an eyebrow at her odd stance.

"Hey, hey, I'm not gonna take that picture from you," he said, raising his arms up in mock surrender. "I know it's real nice."

"Oh,  _God,"_ Beatrice groaned. She set the frame back on the table and collapsed onto the couch, resting her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands. How many more times could she make a fool of herself before she dug her own grave?

She didn't move even when she felt someone sit down beside her. "What's the matter, doll?" Bucky asked in an easygoing tone of voice, which thankfully eased some of her worry. "Steve invited too many girls over again?"

Beatrice didn't want to laugh, but she couldn't help herself, and snorted in a very unbecoming fashion. She raised her hand and peeked between her fingers at Bucky, who wore an easy smile. "How long will it take Steve to order me out of here?" she asked.

Now he looked even more confused. "I don't think he would order anyone out of here unless they were committing murder or something." He grinned crookedly. "Why? You got a dark side?"

Beatrice was about to answer when Steve rushed into the room, fully dressed but with still-damp hair. "Beatrice, please don't apologize, it was my fault," he said, taking in her slumped posture and Bucky's sympathetic glance. "I'm not used to having guests and I completely forgot to lock the door."

"No, Steve, I should have knocked," Beatrice was quick to say. "Don't blame yourself." She felt her face go bright red again at the memory.

Bucky was glancing back and forth between the two of them. When Steve agitatedly ran his hand through his wet hair, he seemed to make the connection, and looked incredulous for a long second before breaking out into laughter. "That's one way to charm the girls, pal," he said, standing up and crossing the room to clap Steve on the shoulder. "I swear you get yourself into the strangest situations on purpose."

Beatrice wished she could find the situation as amusing as he did. While Steve mumbled something under his breath and shuffled his feet, she asked, "When should I leave?"

"Leave?" Steve asked; he was looking at a spot just over her head. "Why would you do that?"

"I've done nothing but bring trouble for you," Beatrice said resignedly. She hoped she could still have Christmas dinner, but didn't want to ask.

"Beatrice, no—you're not going anywhere unless you want to," Steve replied, sounding shocked. "This isn't a conditional offer."

"Don't worry about Steve here kicking you out," Bucky told her, still chuckling. "You are  _cousins_ , you know. In fact, I'd say it was the most excitement he's had in ages."

" _Bucky,"_ Steve said, now sounding exasperated.

Bucky pretended not to hear him, and instead gestured to the door. "Now, are you two done trading apologies? My mother will skin me alive if I'm late."

"You mean I'm still invited?" Beatrice asked. "Aren't you worried about me bringing the plague to your house, or something?"

Bucky grinned at her. "Nah—you'll be the entertainment. Aw, come on," he said as Beatrice looked away. "I'm just kidding, doll. My dad's been talking about you all day."

The name sounded endearing in his voice and not a silly pet name that guys yelled at women across the street. Beatrice had the sense that he called every girl 'doll', but even so she wished he would use her real name.

She stayed quiet as they left the tenement and climbed into Bucky's car—Beatrice in the back, of course. Steve still wouldn't look her in the eyes, and as he filled Bucky in on what they'd discovered that day she concentrated instead on thinking of Ivan, and where he could have taken Henry, and how he was possibly a spy who worked with Howard Stark…Beatrice had heard of the brilliant inventor, though she'd never seen him in person. Surely Elena would have mentioned he worked there, unless  _she_ hadn't even known herself…but why would a spy adopt a child, even if it was his nephew?

Bucky suddenly slammed on the brakes so hard that Beatrice was thrown forward into the back of Steve's seat, her head slamming against the leather. "What the hell were you thinking, Steve?" he asked as another car whizzed by, honking its horn loudly. "Breaking into a damn  _library?"_

"Jesus, Buck, it's  _fine_ ," Steve said pleadingly while Beatrice said a very unladylike word and rubbed her sore head. "We weren't gonna get caught."

"I don't think the librarian would have picked a fight with him," Beatrice groaned; the pain was making her more uninhibited than usual.

Steve shot her a grateful glance; Bucky looked torn between arguing and acknowledging that she had a point. "Beating up little old ladies isn't your thing," he agreed. The car lurched forward again, and this time Beatrice hit her head on the back of her own seat. She was going to need a lobotomy by the time they got to the Barnes's house. "Seriously, you need to stop this," Bucky was saying. "What if they thought you were a burglar, huh? Do you  _want_ to get shot?"

"He was helping me," Beatrice said, not wanting Steve to get into trouble. "It's my fault."

"Beatrice, no," Steve said at the same time Bucky said, "Doll, you're right, it's nobody's fault. I'm going to have to keep this one on a leash from now on." He ruffled Steve's hair, the tension suddenly broken between them. Beatrice watched, slightly bemused, as Steve relaxed, though Bucky's expression was still tight. It really was like they were brothers, but who was she to judge them, anyway? Good thing Steve hadn't told him about falling from the table.

"Stark, huh?" Bucky asked after a moment, breaking the silence. He met her gaze in the mirror. Beatrice leaned forward to rest her chin on the back of his seat, hoping it would soothe the pounding in her head. "He must be making serious money if he's working for a guy like that. For once, I agree with Steve—New Year's Eve is the best time to catch him."

Beatrice didn't want to wait another week to find any news on her uncle, but it seemed as if she had no other choice. She didn't want to bother the boys with her constant requests to find her brother, and she knew she would get farther if she had one of them with her. So she bit her lip instead of complaining and leaned back in her seat, trying to ignore the now-distant pounding in her head. She should be counting her blessings, not lamenting over the fact that they weren't happening fast enough. Beatrice knew she had always been too self-aware, and sometimes she wished she was less transparent so that all of her flaws weren't so obvious to her. Wallowing in self-pity might not be good in the long run, but it sure helped to pass the time. Hadn't Steve and Bucky done enough for her, anyway? She couldn't ask them to go to Stark Industries with her. They had already gone to talk to Pryce themselves completely of their own accord—if they got into trouble with Stark, who held infinitely more power than a landlord, it would be her fault. "Hey," she said, forcing herself to jerk out of her thoughts and back into the real world, "Why did you try to convince Pryce to let me back into the apartment?"

Steve looked over at Bucky, who was gripping the steering wheel rather more tightly than was necessary. "Pryce used to be my family's landlord," he said slowly. "He nearly swindled us out of all our money. My dad had some connections, so he brought a lawsuit against him and we walked away with enough money to support ourselves and then some. I just couldn't believe he was still doing it." His jaw clenched. "There's nothing we can do about him. The judges all have bigger things to do."

Beatrice didn't know what to say, but neither did Bucky seem to expect an answer. She met his eyes briefly in the mirror but quickly glanced away, unsure what he had seen in her face. Steve, too, seemed to sense the sudden tension, and the three of them spent the rest of the ride to Brooklyn Heights in an uncomfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.


	6. VI

Beatrice cupped her hands under the flow of cold water from the sink, waiting until they filled before splashing her face. The shock of the freezing temperature helped to shake her awake after almost being lulled to sleep in the car, and she ran her damp hands through her thick, untameable hair and stared despondently at herself in the mirror. Her face was drawn and pale, though there was still a tinge of pink on her cheeks—leftover embarrassment from walking in on Steve in the bathtub earlier. It had been over an hour since the incident and they still couldn't look each other in the eyes.

She had escaped to the Barnes's bathroom after starting to feel overwhelmed at the sheer spectacle of it all: their house was a large, well-kept brownstone, a corner lot with a view of Manhattan and more rooms than Beatrice could count. Indeed, the bathroom itself was larger than her old bedroom and her new room at Steve's apartment combined. The house was filled with festive decorations—garlands, holly, ivy, even mistletoe—and the Christmas tree had to be at least ten feet tall, towering over the front room. Beatrice felt horribly out of place, feeling more like a servant than a guest. She picked at a loose string on Sarah's old dress, sending a quick apology to the woman. Her nervous habits were going to get her into trouble someday; she didn't imagine Steve would be too happy at seeing that she had ruined his beloved mother's dress.

She hadn't even met Bucky's family yet, much less eaten supper, and she was already panicking. Would they be able to tell that she was playacting? She didn't think they would take too kindly to having a poor girl in their fancy house, no matter what Bucky said. Steve seemed perfectly at home here, but then again, he had clearly been attending suppers for years. Some part of Beatrice knew that she was being irrational, but she couldn't help her worried thoughts—it was imbued into her very nature. If she wasn't worrying about her brother, she was worrying about herself.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard the front door open and unfamiliar voices float toward her. Beatrice took a deep breath and turned off the tap before facing the door. Her mother had always been very adamant about decorum and propriety; Beatrice didn't want to imagine Elena's face if she knew that she was arriving late to greet a woman who was far above her in status.

She tiptoed as quietly as she could across the bathroom and peered out into the hallway. The upstairs corridor appeared to be deserted, save for a black cat that was perched on top of a laundry basket, washing its paw. It seemed utterly unconcerned by her presence, so Beatrice inched past it and paused at the top of the stairs, unsure whether she should join Steve and Bucky or wait to be noticed.

But she didn't have much of a choice in the matter, since a tall, elegant woman had just swept into the foyer below, the diamonds on her ears sparkling like the sun. She was dressed as if she had just returned from the opera: her dark brown hair was piled high atop her head and she wore a fur coat that almost enveloped her thin frame. A man dressed in an equally expensive-looking suit who wore the same handsome, chiseled features as Bucky helped her out of the coat, hanging it up in the adjoining wardrobe. Beatrice assumed these were Bucky's parents; she suddenly felt very small.

Mrs. Barnes glanced up and saw her standing at the top of the stairs. The plunging red dress she wore reminded Beatrice of the flappers in the twenties, carefree and fun-loving. Before she could open her mouth and introduce herself, Mrs. Barnes had already swept up the stairs, clasping both of Beatrice's hands in her own. "You must be Beatrice Hartley," she exclaimed in a low, attractive voice. "James mentioned that you would be joining us for supper."

Beatrice blinked at her, dumbfounded. "Um, yes, I am," she stuttered. "I cannot thank you enough for having me, ma'am." She stopped short of admitting that she'd never had a proper Christmas dinner before.

Mrs. Barnes waved an airy hand. "Any friend of Steven's is a friend of mine—or rather,  _cousin,"_ she said with a sly wink. Beatrice smiled nervously at her. "And please, call me Winifred, dear."

"Winnie, the poor girl must be overwhelmed as it is," Mr. Barnes called up the stairs. Like his wife, he held an air of unmistakable stability.

"It's nice to meet you, ma'am—Winifred," Beatrice quickly corrected herself.

The older woman flashed her a dazzling grin. "The pleasure is all mine, Beatrice. I do hope you enjoy supper—which should be served at any moment. I'd better go find my son and see if he can round up everyone else." With that, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving Beatrice feeling as if she had just encountered a Hollywood film star. She remembered that the Barnes family used to live in Greenpoint with Pryce as their landlord, and thought that they couldn't have ever been as poor as she was: Mrs. Barnes screamed of old money, the easy comfort of being born into wealth. Beatrice envied her.

"Good evening, Miss Hartley," said Mr. Barnes as Beatrice descended the staircase and stopped in front of him. He held out a hand and she took it: he had a rough, callused grip. "As I am sure my son has told you, I served alongside your father during the Great War. My name is George Barnes. I've been looking forward to meeting you. If you don't mind me commenting on it, you look very much like John."

"So I've been told," Beatrice said with the faintest of grins. "Henry—my brother—takes after our mother much more than I do."

A shadow seemed to cross over George's face, and he gestured to the nearby sitting-room. "Do you mind if I speak to you privately for a moment?" he asked.

"No, not at all," Beatrice said, albeit confusedly, and followed him inside. The room was dark and stuffy, though once George strode over to the heavy velvet drapes and pulled them aside, revealing the snowy street below, muted evening light poured into the room. Several overstuffed armchairs and couches were placed about the room, all seeming to encircle a radio placed on a stand at the far corner. Beside it was a shiny new record player. Beatrice looked over at the side-table, where dozens of gild-framed pictures were placed, and couldn't help but smile when she saw a photo of a much younger Bucky, bright-eyed and missing a front tooth, with his arms around a scrawny, laughing Steve, whose clothes were covered in dirt. She guessed that the Barneses were Steve's second family.

"Please take a seat, Miss Hartley," George offered, gesturing to the furniture. Beatrice gingerly sat down in the nearest armchair and folded her hands in her lap, staring up at him cautiously. He lowered himself into the chair opposite hers, clearly trying to make her feel at ease. "I would like to offer my condolences for the passing of your father and mother. Although I was more familiar with John, I did have the pleasure of encountering Elena several times, and she proved herself a most admirable lady during those brief meetings."

"Thank you, sir," Beatrice replied. "She most certainly was."

George inclined his head to her before continuing. "I see she has passed her manners on to you. In fact, we have met once before, Miss Hartley, although I am sure you do not remember it." Seeing Beatrice's puzzled frown, he smiled slightly. "You were just an infant then, barely a year old. John was still working at the Navy Yard alongside me when he brought his wife and daughter to visit our previous residence in Greenpoint. Has James told you about our similar dealings with Pryce?"

Beatrice nodded. "Yes, he has. It appears our families are connected in ways neither of us were aware of until recently."

"That we are." George reached for a pipe on the table next to the record player and placed it between his teeth. "But yes, as I recall, you were a quiet and well-behaved child. I do not even think James will remember that night, it was so long ago. I was saddened to hear of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding John's death. I had not spoken to him for many years, but one never forgets a fellow soldier." George suddenly looked very old, wrinkle lines crossing his face. Absently, Beatrice thought that this would be what Bucky looked like when he was older. "I do hope your brother is in good hands. And please let me know if you require any assistance. It is extraordinarily fortunate that you have found somewhere to live in the meantime."

"It certainly is," Beatrice agreed. "Thank you very much for the offer, sir."

George now looked lost in thought. "I was proud to call John my friend and ally during our time in Europe. Those were dark days indeed—war, as you can no doubt imagine, is a trying time and some men cope with it better than others. It is distressing that John felt it necessary to turn to drink. He and I lost contact after he left his job at the Navy Yard—you would have still been just a child, then. I pray your memories of him have not been tainted with bitterness, Miss Hartley. I remember him as a kind, brave, and valiant man. Alcohol can turn the best of men into devils."

"I understand, sir," she said quietly. "I just wish I had known the side of my father that you did. And please call me Beatrice."

"Beatrice." He smiled kindly at her. "Forgive me, you must be wondering why I am telling you all of this. You see, when I heard of John and Elena's deaths, I did not suspect that you would come under any sort of inheritance. I believe I can assist in some way."

Beatrice stared dumbly at him. "Pardon me?" she asked weakly. "Sir?"

A twinkle alighted in George's eyes as he puffed on his pipe. "A factory near the Navy Yard has been searching for women to package and ship medical supplies for the war effort," he explained. "It does not require any previous experience, and I hear that the pay is quite decent."

Beatrice wasn't entirely certain that she had heard him correctly. Surely things couldn't fall into place so perfectly so soon after she had felt so hopeless. "I—I—I think that would be perfect," she stuttered. "I was a typist before the war, so I think I would be able to adjust to the environment…and actually, I wanted to attend nursing school but I had to stay in New York after my mother's pregnancy was revealed, and helping out the war effort would be a dream come true." She was, of course, thinking not only of the job, but of the pay it would entail. If she worked every day for ten hours, assuming she was paid decently enough, she would eventually be able to move out of Steve's apartment and buy a place of her own where Henry could live with her…

"I thought you might be pleased with that option," George said. "No doubt it shall sustain you until you are married. I shall have James escort you there on your first day—he works at the neighboring docks."

Beatrice was still in a state of shock. "Do you know when I would start?" she asked.

"Likely as soon as possible," George said. "I would wager any time after the New Year. James will—"

But Beatrice never did get to find out what "James" would do, as the door to the sitting-room opened and a young girl walked in. Beatrice was struck by how much she looked like Bucky; her gray eyes were the same size and shape as his, and her hair precisely the same shade of brown. Confidence was evident in every step she took. "Papa, I—oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you," she said when she spotted Beatrice.

"It is quite all right, Rebecca," George said, rising from his chair and inclining his head toward Beatrice. "This is Beatrice Hartley. Beatrice, this is my daughter, Rebecca."

Beatrice hadn't known that Bucky had a younger sister, and smiled at the girl, who looked about eighteen. Her eyebrows rose, and there was a slight grin on her face when she replied, "You're Steve's… _cousin_ , right? It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Beatrice replied politely. She stood up as George had, who was now frowning at the door.

"Rebecca, are you hiding something?" he asked. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"

A look of alarm briefly flashed across the other girl's face. "I've already told Mother and she approves of it." George walked out into the foyer, and Beatrice gingerly followed him. Rebecca went to stand next to a sandy-haired boy with bright green eyes who was wearing a nervous expression.

"This is Ernest Proctor," Rebecca said, gesturing to the boy. "I invited him over for supper."

"Is that all?" a voice asked in her ear. Beatrice jumped, seeing that Bucky and Steve had materialized beside her. Steve looked concerned; Bucky merely looked amused.

Rebecca's face flushed red.  _"_ Ernest, this is my brother, Bucky. I named him that because he used to run around buck naked as a kid."

" _Really?"_  Beatrice asked, unable to help herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve covering a smile with his hand.

Bucky opened his mouth, presumably to retaliate, but Winifred, clearly sensing an impending calamity, quickly stepped in. "James, if you'd go show Steve and Beatrice the table—Rebecca, if I could have a word with you and your father…"

Bucky rolled his eyes but beckoned Beatrice and Steve down the corridor while George, Winifred and Rebecca disappeared into the sitting-room, leaving Ernest standing rather awkwardly in the hall. Beatrice couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"So what did my dad want to talk to you about?" Bucky asked once they had rounded a corner. He had slowed down so that he was now walking next to Beatrice.

"He offered me a job in a factory on Front Street," Beatrice told him.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. "I figured he'd do something like that."

"By the way, I didn't know your name was James," Beatrice said, amused. It evoked the image of an old British gentleman in a top hat, not the handsome, smirking boy in front of her.

The tips of Bucky's ears turned red. "My folks are the only people who call me that."

"They're also the only people who  _can_  call him that," Steve, who was walking on her other side, stage-whispered to Beatrice. Bucky glared at them.

"And I also didn't know the origin of your nickname," Beatrice said slyly.

"She's lying," Bucky said immediately. "Ma's surname used to be Buchanan."

"If the shoe fits…" Steve began. He and Beatrice shared a grin, apparently heedless of what had transpired between them earlier that afternoon. Beatrice had the sense that he was trying to make her feel at ease.

"I'm starting to believe you two really are related," Bucky complained. "Anyway,  _you're_ one to talk. I have an aunt named Beatrice, and—"

"No, you don't," Steve interjected.

Bucky grinned devilishly. "All right, so maybe her name is Ida. I don't remember. But the point is that Beatrice is such a boring name."

"As opposed to Bucky?" Beatrice inquired. Steve laughed. "I was named after my grandmothers, Beatrice and Rose."

Bucky's eyes glinted. "Now  _there's_ a name. Rose.  _Rosie._ Like Rosie the Riveter?"

"No!"

"Aw, you sound just like Becca now," Bucky complained. "You'll fit in here in no time, Rosie."

"Becca and Bucky?" Beatrice whispered to Steve after throwing Bucky an annoyed glance.

He grinned crookedly. "It's an old joke."

They had reached the dining-room now: the table was laid out the likes of which Beatrice had never seen before. At best, during Christmas her mother had been able to find a roast chicken, but since the war they'd had to make do with slices of ham if the butcher took pity on her, and certainly not with any extra rationed meals. The Barnes's dining table, however, was nearly overflowing with food—clearly they had combined their ration books with another, probably Ernest or even Steve. The centerpiece of the table was an enormous stuffed turkey, its body nearly the size of Beatrice's head. A bowl of steaming gravy was placed next to the turkey, and she could see several other serving dishes filled with steamed vegetables, rolls, and buttered squash scattered around the table—there was even plum pudding for dessert. Each plate had a tall glass of milk sitting next to it. Beatrice hadn't eaten food like this since before the war—she'd almost forgotten what it tasted like.

Her stomach growled impatiently as everyone took seats around the table. George was at the head, of course, with Winifred and Rebecca seated nearest him. Ernest sat next to Rebecca, and Bucky next to Ernest—both boys looked displeased at this set of arrangements. Steve and Beatrice sat across from the rest, at the very end of the table. Beatrice expected to be served last, but Winifred had already pushed the dishes over to their end.

"Take as much as you want," she instructed. "Both of you are far too skinny. Steve, what have I told you about skipping meals?"

At least Steve had the sense to look appropriately abashed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sorry, Mrs. Barnes. I guess I'm just doomed to stay this way for the rest of my life."

"Nonsense," chided Winifred. "Listen, if you need more food, don't hesitate to ask James. It's nothing that a few good meals won't fix."

"Ma, that's not true, and you know it," Bucky burst out. He and Steve were staring at each other across the table, communicating in that best-friend way Beatrice had always longed to share with someone. She suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and concentrated on scooping up a forkful of mashed potato instead. It was hot and delicious, filling up her stomach instantly, but she still felt strangely empty inside.

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Here we go again," she muttered. "Another discussion about how sickly Steve is. Face it, Mother, he's going to look like this forever."

"I'm not as sickly as everyone thinks I am," Steve burst out with surprising force, though it was clear to everyone in the room that he was lying. It surely wasn't the first time he had had such an argument.

"Shut up, Becca," her older brother snapped. "This is none of your business."

"James, Rebecca, enough," George said. He spoke in a level, firm tone, with no sign of anger, but both siblings instantly quieted at their father's order, despite the fact that they were both clearly longing to say more.

A pregnant silence descended upon the table. Beatrice and Ernest, the outsiders, shared an awkward glance. She was suddenly glad that she wasn't the only quiet one in the room.

After they had all finished supper—albeit with slightly more strained conversation—they retired into the sitting-room. Winifred tended to the fire, while Bucky went over to the record player. Beatrice took a seat next to Steve on the loveseat while Rebecca curled up on the remaining couch next to Ernest.

Beatrice didn't think that she had ever been so full in her life. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't even had the desire to  _look_ at food, and she hadn't thought that she could ever feel so warm and relaxed. Her discomfort at the table had disappeared, and she was instead feeling oddly joyful. Her thoughts, too, had taken an optimistic turn: now, instead of despairing over whether or not she would ever see Henry again, she felt confident that she would be able to track down her uncle. And she would be able to rent another apartment with the wages from her new job, if that worked out. She would have to see if someone was seeking a roommate…she didn't want to be a burden on Steve, despite his numerous protests to the contrary. Beatrice was so used to taking care of others—her father, Henry—that she was completely lost when it came to taking care of herself. She supposed that was a skill she would have to learn sooner or later. And then, at least, there would be no more mortifying episodes like there had been that afternoon. She turned to Steve to apologize yet again, but before she could say anything the record player crackled to life and the familiar strings of "White Christmas" filled the room, while Bing Crosby's voice crooned in the background.

"I adore this song!" Rebecca cried. She jumped to her feet and grabbed Ernest's hands, pulling him into the middle of the room. Beatrice watched them whirl around the carpet with a smile. Next to the record player, Bucky scowled.

Beside her, Steve was sitting very still, his back rigid against the couch. With a funny jolt, Beatrice wondered if she should ask him to dance too. Never mind that she didn't even know how—or that it was the boy who was supposed to ask first. He looked so uncomfortable in his current position that she just wanted to help him.

"Steve—" she began, and abruptly stopped when she realized he wasn't listening to her at all: his head was tilted toward George and Winifred, who were speaking in low, worried voices. If Beatrice strained her ears, she could just make out their conversation, though she felt slightly ashamed of doing so. She suddenly noticed that Bucky had disappeared.

"…think they'll send him to Europe?" Winifred was asking. "The Smith boy next door got his orders this morning…of all the days, George…"

"I expect James will, too, at some point," George replied. He had replaced his pipe with a cigar and snuffed it out, dropping it carelessly in the ashtray. "They're running out of men over there faster than they can replace them, I've heard."

Beatrice guessed they must be talking about Bucky—she hadn't known that he was in the army. No wonder Steve looked so upset, especially if he himself wanted to join more than anything. Across the room, the song had ended, and she watched Ernest change the record and a faster-paced melody began to play. Laughing, he extended his hand to Rebecca again.

Steve suddenly jerked upright as if he was coming out of a trance and turned to Beatrice. "Sorry—did you say something?" he asked. "I was…just thinking."

"Never mind," Beatrice replied, shaking her head. "It wasn't important." Suddenly anxious to find Bucky, she stood up and quickly crossed the room, dodging the dancing couple. She thought she heard Steve call after her, but it also might have just been her imagination.

The entryway was dark and quiet after the boisterous noise and bright light from the sitting-room. Beatrice paused in the doorway to let her eyes adjust before walking over to Bucky, who was silhouetted against the paned window that framed the front door and staring out at the softly falling snow.

"You know I don't like this any more than you do—" he began, turning, but stopped mid-sentence when he spotted her. "Oh, it's you, Rosie," he said instead. "I thought you were Steve."

Beatrice ignored her new nickname. "Your parents were talking about you being sent to Europe," she admitted. "Steve didn't look too happy when he heard that."

Bucky sighed audibly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and wandering over to the staircase; Beatrice spotted the black cat curled up on the bottom step. He leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on the door to the sitting-room. "I can't believe they're having this conversation tonight, and with Steve here, no less. They know how determined he is to enlist."

"I didn't know  _you_ were in the army," Beatrice said. She walked over to the stairs and perched on the step next to the cat, who purred and arched its back as she stroked it.

Bucky dropped onto the seat next to her, his gaze still far away. "I enlisted the day after Pearl Harbor," he explained. "And went to basic last summer. But I never thought that I would have a chance of actually being recruited to  _fight._ Steve, though…see, he would rather die than be underestimated. That combined with his idiotic determination to get into fights means that joining the army is right up his alley. He tried to enlist at the same time I did, but obviously he wasn't accepted—the kid has more health problems than all the patients at the hospital combined." He gave a hollow, humorless laugh. "But I don't want to seem like I'm ungrateful for getting into the army when it's all  _he's_ ever wanted. I have to make him believe that this is something I want to do. But now that so many guys are getting called up, I have to face the possibility the same could happen to me any day."

Beatrice was silent for a long moment, letting his words sink in. "So why did you enlist in the first place?" she finally asked.

Bucky shrugged. "A sense of duty, mostly. A lot of folks were angry after Pearl Harbor. Besides, my dad would be ashamed if I didn't sign up, not after he was a great war hero in  _his_ day."

Beatrice stared thoughtfully at the side of his profile, which looked even more handsome in the dim light. While Steve's eyes were the color of the sky on a sunny, cloudless day, Bucky's eyes were the color of the ocean after a violent storm. "I've seen what can happen to someone after war," she said quietly, while the cat purred softly under her fingers. "If I can somehow manage to convince Steve it's not worth it—"

But Bucky was shaking his head. "You can't convince Steve of anything," he said darkly. "If anything that'll make him even more determined. He's like this dumb cat here—the more you try to shove it out of the way, the more it tries to attack you." He scratched the animal between its ears and turned to face Beatrice, wearing a rueful grin. "I don't mean to dump all this on you, Rosie. I just can't tell anyone else—Ma and Pop and Becca wouldn't understand—and you live with Steve now, so you're bound to find out soon enough." Beatrice thought she could sense the old Bucky returning.

"It's fine," she assured him. "It certainly explains a lot…like why he was so bruised up when he found me."

"Well," Bucky admitted, "If he hadn't gotten into that fight he wouldn't have seen you. Has he told you that's how we met, too? Only that time it was me rescuing him."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows, unsurprised. "Really?"

"Yeah. I was ten and saw a bunch of older guys beating up this tiny kid after school. I slugged one of them right in the jaw and the rest ran away—couldn't take what they dished out. Anyway, I expected Steve to be grateful. But the little punk didn't even thank me! He said he was doing fine on his own." Bucky shook his head. "I'm still waiting for him to admit that I saved his life."

"You might be waiting a long time," Beatrice mused. "Then I'm not surprised he went after Pryce. I owe you both a thousand thank-yous for that."

"Don't mention it, Rosie," Bucky said, waving her off. "It was the least we could do. Steve felt horrible that he wasn't able to persuade the old geezer to go easy on you."

Beatrice sighed. "He's been so kind to me. I want to repay him." She sat up straighter and looked at Bucky. "Do you know what he'd like?"

He shrugged. "To dance, probably. I don't think he's ever danced with a girl before."

"I was going to ask him to dance, but I don't know how," she confessed.

Bucky grinned at her. "I'll teach you, doll. It's not that hard."

Something about his tone made the heat rise to Beatrice's cheeks, and she felt equally relieved and disappointed when the sitting-room door opened and light flooded in, blinding both of them. Rebecca and Ernest, both sweaty and flushed from dancing, exited with cigarettes in their hands. "Want a cig?" Rebecca asked them.

"Nah," Bucky said amiably. "Kicked the habit. Smoke bothers Steve's asthma."

Beatrice declined on the grounds of Steve's asthma too—although she would likely have refused anyway; the smell had started to make her feel ill shortly after her father turned into the living embodiment of an ashtray—and just as they made to go outside, Rebecca tapped her on the shoulder.

"I meant to tell you earlier," she said, with a smirk on her face, "I never thought I would meet anyone shorter than me."

Beatrice blinked. "I'm over five feet tall!"

"Barely," Bucky muttered. Beatrice felt the heat rise to her cheeks while Rebecca and Ernest left the house, a flurry of snowflakes blowing inside and landing on the undoubtedly priceless Persian carpet.

"Beatrice?"

Both she and Bucky turned around to see Steve coming out of the sitting-room. "You left so quickly…I thought you were upset," he said, a hint of an apology in his tone.

Beatrice shook her head and stood up. "I'm not, I promise," she told him. "I just needed some air."

"So did I," Bucky chimed in. "What took  _you_ so long, punk? Usually you're the first one out."

Steve, Beatrice noted, was a terrible liar; he shuffled his feet and avoided their gazes as he mumbled, "I was listening to the music."

"Sure you were," Bucky said, standing up as well and mock-punching Steve on the shoulder. "Eavesdropping on my parents, more like. Rosie, don't let him rub off on you. I can't deal with two Steves at once."

"I promise," Beatrice said, and laughed despite herself.


	7. VII

The East River rushed under her feet as Beatrice skimmed her fingers over the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge, drawing patterns in the light snow that dusted the wood. Flakes were falling from the dark sky, settling on her hair and clothes, and Beatrice absent-mindedly brushed them off. A thick wool skirt now covered her legs instead of merely stockings, and the navy blue overcoat she wore was patched but still comfortably warm. To her pleasant surprise, she had found her mother's initials stitched into the lining—Elena's trademark signature. Beatrice wondered when Sarah Rogers had brought her coat to be hemmed, and wondered if she herself had once met Steve's mother and never known. At any rate, she felt oddly connected to Elena in a way she hadn't since her death nearly seven months previously, and drew the coat more tightly around her shoulders, adjusting the matching shawl as she did.

A small crowd had gathered along the bridge, waiting for the Stark Industries fireworks to begin. There was just under an hour until midnight; Beatrice hoped they would be able to reach the building in time. Her heart quickened at the thought of seeing Henry again—her stomach had been twisting itself into knots all day. Since there was little to no chance of them actually coming across Howard Stark, Beatrice planned to intercept any administrative employee she saw—they would be more likely to know where Ivan Romanov was, anyway. She doubted Stark kept meticulous records of where his employees lived.

Turning away from the gloomy view of the river, Beatrice searched the walkway for Steve. He was standing under the dim glow of the nearest lamp, the yellow light bathing his face in a sickly pallor. Beatrice felt gratitude swirl up inside her for the umpteenth time as she regarded him. Neither he nor Bucky had to agree to help her on this wild goose chase when it held no benefit to themselves, and yet both had still insisted on it. Steve had been unusually out of breath during the walk from Flatbush, and when Beatrice asked if he was feeling all right he had said he'd never felt better—shortly after, she'd had to slow down to match his pace. Bucky had promised to pick them up on the bridge, but he was now ten minutes late and Beatrice didn't recognize any of the cars driving past them.

"Do you think something has happened?" she asked in a low voice, the snow crunching under her boots as she walked over to the blond boy. Steve was rubbing his hands together for warmth; up close, she could see that his cheeks were flushed red with cold. His blue gaze met hers, and Beatrice tried to hide her anxiety. She didn't want to betray just how much she was relying on his plan.

"I don't know," Steve said after a moment. "He's never been this late before."

The words had barely left his mouth when Beatrice caught sight of a figure running toward them at full speed, appearing out of the fog like a ghost. She shielded her eyes with the arch of her hand to get a closer look, and gently tapped Steve on the shoulder. He turned around as well, his eyes widening in surprise.  _"Bucky?"_ he asked.

By the time Bucky reached them, he was breathing hard and his face was even redder than Steve's; he looked as if he had sprinted the entire way there. "Rebecca stole the car," he panted, bracing his hands on his knees. "She must have snuck out to Proctor's. She's gonna get it from Ma and Pop when she gets home."

"Never mind that," Beatrice said. "Are you all right?"

Bucky straightened up, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. "I told her I needed the car tonight, but of course she didn't listen to me."

Beatrice stuffed her hands into her coat pockets for warmth as she exhaled, a white puff of air vanishing into the night. "That's okay," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. "I can walk to Stark Industries, then."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "We're already here, aren't we? Besides, we're not planning to walk."

Beatrice frowned. "But you don't have a car—"

He grinned at her. "Watch and learn, Rosie." He stepped out into the traffic and hailed a passing taxi, its bright yellow paint distinct in the light.

"Bucky," Steve hissed to him as he opened the door, "I can't afford it—"

"Who said anything about you paying for it?" Bucky scoffed. He playfully shoved Steve inside before extending his arm to Beatrice. She stared dumbly at it for a long moment before finally looping her arm around his and climbing into the backseat next to Steve. As she passed Bucky, their eyes met, hazel and gray. Beatrice quickly looked away, her heart pounding ridiculously fast compared to the amount of exertion she had placed on it climbing into the taxi. She braced herself for a comment from Bucky, but none came. He slid in next to her, so that she was seated between the two boys.

"Where are you going?" the driver grunted, who was watching them suspiciously with dark, beady eyes.

"Stark Industries," Bucky replied, the picture of civility.

"That on Park Avenue?"

"And 45th," Bucky added politely. He thrust a bill at the driver, who grunted but reluctantly turned back to face the front. The taxi rumbled to life underneath them as they began their slow journey through the labyrinth of Manhattan amidst the snow. Traffic crammed the streets, and Beatrice began to worry that they wouldn't make it to Stark Industries in time. She anxiously folded her hands together and stared down at her lap. Her right knee was just brushing Bucky's; she was sitting so close to him that she could smell soap and a faint hint of cologne. He'd probably put it on in case he met a girl on the way.

Feeling heat again rise to her cheeks, Beatrice turned to Steve on her other side, who was staring out the window watching the buildings move slowly past them. As if he could sense Beatrice's gaze on him, he turned to her, his eyes widening slightly at finding her staring, before smiling shyly but reassuringly at her. There was nothing in his smile but pure, unadulterated kindness, and the knot in Beatrice's stomach loosened.

"You okay, pal?" she heard Bucky ask Steve in a low voice. He leaned over her to get a better view of his friend, and Beatrice was left to stare at the profile of Bucky's face inches from her own.

"I'm  _fine,_  Buck," Steve replied, a hint of irritation in his tone.

Bucky sighed. "You're still upset about not being able to pay. Listen, I have more than enough money." His tone made it clear that this wasn't the first time they had had such a conversation.

"I start my job tomorrow," Beatrice interjected. "I can do it…"

"Not you too, Rosie," Bucky said, drawing back and shaking his head at her. "Listen, you can make me that corned beef again sometime and we'll call it even." The previous day, Beatrice had made corned beef for supper and Bucky had joined them, eating nearly half of it by himself. She had taken over cooking and cleaning, as Steve was an abysmal cook and believed that burnt eggs could be eaten for breakfast, lunch and supper. If nothing else, housework helped to distract her and channel her anxiety into something useful. It was no way to repay either of the boys for what they had done for her, but at least it was a start.

Since the driver kept a watchful eye on them the entire ride, probably wondering why they weren't at a party or with a larger group of young people, there was little conversation between them. Beatrice's throat burned with the question she had longed to ask them since she had woken up in Steve's apartment but hadn't had the courage to in the week she had known them. Every time she opened her mouth, the words became stuck in her throat.

By the time the taxi reached Park Avenue, Beatrice was more than happy to hop out of the car—after Steve so she didn't have to repeat the previous awkward moment with Bucky. At least Steve was just as awkward around her; it was part of the reason why she felt so comfortable with him.

Beatrice didn't often venture into Manhattan—she'd never had a reason to; her entire life had always been in Brooklyn—and she felt small and insignificant against the towering buildings, so tall that she had to crane her neck to see where the concrete ended and the sky began. The sidewalk was crowded with people who wanted to get the best view of the fireworks, lining the streets outside of Stark Industries. In times like these it was as if the collective population of New York was trying to shake off the dark shadow of the war that haunted them every other day of the year.

While Bucky was paying the driver, Beatrice took a step closer to Steve and finally said it, the words she had been rehearsing in her head for the past seven days. "What do you want from me?" she asked quietly. "You and Bucky."

Steve blinked owlishly at her. "What?" he asked bluntly before quickly correcting himself. "I mean, pardon? We don't want anything from you, Beatrice—"

She bit her lip and stepped out of the path of a young couple who had emerged from the crowd. The chatter around them was loud enough so that Bucky couldn't hear her. "But you must," she insisted. "You—both of you—have been so helpful in the search for my brother that it's difficult to believe that you don't want something in return— _oh._ " Her last word trailed off as disappointment surged through her. It was so obvious—how had she not noticed it before? Of course they wanted something in return—for her to leave as soon as possible. They were probably sick of her disrupting their lives. In fact, they were probably hoping she would leave the very next day.

"Beatrice, what is it?" Steve asked, looking worried. "Of course we don't want anything in return. We just want to help you." He paused. "Is—is that so difficult to believe?"

Beatrice looked at him, at his wide, earnest eyes and his open face, at his slightly hunched shoulders and his cheeks red with cold. Steve had never done anything to make her believe she was unwelcome in his apartment, and Bucky's playful teasing had been gentler than she would have expected for someone who didn't want her around. She remembered the quiet conversation she'd had with Bucky after Christmas dinner, when he had told her about enlisting in the army. And she thought about Steve breaking into the library to help her find information about her uncle. If she was really honest with herself, Beatrice knew that the belief for them wanting her to leave had no basis in fact. She thought it was too good to be true, not when she hadn't felt so happy in months.

"Listen," Steve said when she didn't answer, "If it was the other way around—if you were helping me or Bucky—what would you do?"

Beatrice shuffled her feet awkwardly. "It's not the same."

"Isn't it?"

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again when she realized that she had no more points to argue. The weight of Steve's gaze on her made her feel as if he could see through to her very soul, and he would never be surprised by anything he found there.

She wanted— _needed_ —to believe that she wasn't alone in the world, that someone truly cared about her. The past week with Steve and Bucky had at least offered her that insight. She had felt… _safe,_ like her life wouldn't fall and shatter into a thousand irretrievable pieces again. But she refused to let herself believe that she had friends in case the tentative bond that had developed between them would snap at a moment's notice. Letting herself depend on someone else was a new sensation for her, at least since her mother had died, but allowing herself to finally believe that Steve and Bucky, two ordinary boys from Brooklyn, were now all Beatrice had to depend on was one of the easiest things she had ever done. And as she smiled shyly at Steve, as always unable to express her gratitude in words, she realized the only lie had been the one she was trying to tell to herself.

"What are you whispering about?" This was Bucky, who had suddenly appeared beside Steve. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Proposing to her, are you?"

Even the tips of Steve's ears turned red. Beatrice gave Bucky her best glare. _"No,"_  she said emphatically. "If you really want to know—"

But her attention was caught by a movement in her peripheral vision; they had moved closer to the building to avoid being swallowed by the crowd, and now Beatrice realized a woman had just slipped out of a side door she hadn't previously noticed, glancing furtively at the gathering crowd before ducking her head and walking quickly down the sidewalk away from them.

"Do you think she's an employee?" Beatrice whispered, but Bucky had already taken off towards her. Alarmed, she turned to Steve. "What's he doing?"

Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking resigned. "You'll see," he said, a bit glumly.

They were just within earshot of the conversation; Bucky cleared his throat and sidled up to the woman, looking perfectly at ease. "Excuse me, ma'am," he declared, bestowing a winning grin upon her that had won the hearts of nearly every girl at George Washington High School.

Beatrice guessed she was nearly twice Bucky's age, but her face was heavily lined with makeup and her dark hair was perfectly coiffed. Even from her distance, she could see the woman's face narrowed first in annoyance at being interrupted, but softened as soon as she saw Bucky. "The fireworks don't start for another twenty minutes, sir," she told him, beginning to walk away. She had a thick accent which Beatrice vaguely recognized as Italian.

"It's not about that," he told her, dropping his voice an octave so Beatrice had to strain her ears to hear the rest of his sentence. "I was wondering if you could tell me where an employee of Stark Industries lives."

"I am not an employee myself," the woman replied curtly. She again tried to sidestep him, but Bucky wouldn't give up so easily. "And even if I was, I would not be authorized to give you that information."

"Ma'am, it's important," he pleaded. "You may have heard of him—his name is Ivan Romanov."

Beatrice was taken aback by two things—firstly, by the fact that Bucky had  _remembered_ her uncle's name, and secondly, by the woman jerking in surprise when Bucky said the name.

She was hurrying over to them before she knew it, anxious to explain before the woman disappeared for good. "Ma'am, he's telling the truth," she said quickly, stepping in front of Bucky. "Ivan Romanov is my uncle."

Surprise flickered across the harsh lines of the woman's face, but her mouth was still set in a hard line. "Who are you?" she asked.

Beatrice drew herself up to her full height, which barely came up to Bucky's shoulders. "I am Beatrice Hartley, the daughter of John Hartley and Elena Romanova. I was born in Brooklyn, and Henry Hartley is my brother."

Now the shock on the woman's face was unfurling, quickly being replaced with understanding touched with suspicion. "Well, it is certainly fortunate that you have chosen me to speak to, of all people. Ivan told me that you may show up at some point." Despite her thick accent, her English was impeccable.

"Who are  _you?"_ Beatrice asked in return.

"I am his housekeeper."

* * *

As luck would have it, Ivan lived less than five blocks away from Stark Industries, on the second floor of a brownstone walk-up that screamed of wealth. Beatrice paused in front of the house before she ascended the stairs leading to the porch, the wind whipping her hair. She felt a stab of bitterness at this uncle who worked for one of the richest men in New York and who had his own housekeeper, but who had never appeared when the Hartleys had been hit by the Great Depression, or when Beatrice had been completely, utterly alone in the world and desperately needing help. What gave Ivan Romanov the right to walk into an orphanage and adopt Henry with only the most tenuous claim to family?

The housekeeper—Luisa, she had told them—dug around in her pockets for a key and opened the front door. Bucky ushered Beatrice and Steve in first, presumably wanting them to get out of the blowing snow. Beatrice turned back to look at him as she stepped into the entryway—his eyes were very serious. "What is it?" she asked him, placing a hand on his wrist before quickly jerking it back, remembering he wasn't Steve. He looked even more handsome than ever in the dim light, which illuminated only half of his face and brought the thin line of stubble that coated his throat into sharp relief. Beatrice quickly tore her eyes back up to his. "Bucky?" she asked again. Luisa and Steve had already begun climbing up a winding staircase that curved into darkness.

"You're cold," was all he said. It wasn't a question. Before Beatrice could half-heartedly deny his words, he was shrugging off his own coat and holding it out to her.

She laughed in surprise. "But I already have a coat on," she exclaimed. "Besides, won't you be cold?"

Bucky abruptly reached out and put his hand against her cheek, his palm hot against her skin. She shivered, but it wasn't from the temperature. Just as she began to lean into his touch, he withdrew his hand and gently pulled her glove back, brushing his fingers against the inside of her wrist. His fingertips were like ice.

Beatrice shuddered again; her skin tingled where he had touched her. She wondered what could have caused his sudden change in demeanor. "I guess you're right," she said, and slipped into Bucky's coat. It was far too big for her, but it was warm and smelled like his cologne, which carried a faint hint of wood and spice and wasn't as overpowering as she would have guessed.

Bucky met her gaze again, his eyes intent. "Rosie—" he began, but this time it was his turn to be interrupted; Steve was leaning over the balcony at the top of the stairs waving at them, his blond hair a beacon in the dark.

"Beatrice," he called down to her, "I think you might want to see this."

Just like that, the spell was broken, and Beatrice edged past Bucky to leap up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She found herself in a dimly-lit but grandly furnished sitting-room, heavy drapes pulled over the windows and a newly upholstered anise green couch pushed against the wall. A messy desk covered with papers stood in the corner, the lamp on it providing the room's only illumination. A red-haired man was sitting on the chair; he put his pen down and rose to his feet as soon as he saw Beatrice. But she was looking at Luisa, who had lifted a small bundle of blankets from a crib Beatrice hadn't noticed in her cursory glance of the room.

"Henry," she breathed, her feet automatically carrying over her to Luisa, who held out her brother. Beatrice pushed the blankets back to reveal Henry's face and sank onto the couch, hugging him to her as if in fear that he would be taken away again.

"He is asleep," Luisa said as Beatrice kissed his forehead. "Ivan likes to have him in here while he is working."

For the first time, Beatrice turned her attention to the man who had been sitting at the desk. He stepped toward her, into the light's path, and she let out an involuntary gasp: he was the male version of Elena, precisely down to the shape of his face and the shade of his hair. There was no doubt that this was her uncle.

"Beatrice," he began, and she was almost surprised to her a smooth American accent. "I hope you will forgive me."

Steve and Bucky were both standing rather awkwardly at the front of the room, but Beatrice was glad they were there all the same. She looked at them, and then back at her uncle, who slowly knelt down in front of her so they were at eye level. Somehow the gesture didn't seem condescending. "For what?" she asked.

"For not contacting you earlier." He smiled at her. "I believed you dead—or missing at the very best. The woman who brought your brother to the orphanage said that you had run away."

"Mrs. Banner," Beatrice said, unconsciously tightening her grip on Henry. Her former neighbor was the entire reason that they had been separated in the first place.

Ivan nodded. "I hoped you would find me somehow. I did not think you would let Alian go so easily."

"Henry," Beatrice corrected, annoyed that he had already been renamed. "His name is Henry."

"My apologies," Ivan corrected. "Henry. Yes, I had hoped that, if I could not find you, I would be able to raise him as my own son."

"How?" Beatrice demanded. "You—you're a spy. I read about you in the Brooklyn archives. You work for Howard Stark. My mother rarely spoke of you. Why am I only meeting you now?"

"You are determined, aren't you?" Ivan murmured, almost to himself. He sat back on his heels, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "You must know that Elena—your mother—and I both grew up in New York. The city has always been our home. When Elena married your father and moved to Brooklyn, I took a job working for Howard Stark in Manhattan—he was still struggling to create his own company then. He believed I had potential, and I became a codebreaker for his company, traveling between New York and Russia. Fearing for my family's safety when tensions rose between the countries, I cut off almost all contact with Elena, only sending her letters once or twice a year. She told me of your birth and when she learned she was expecting your brother twenty-two years later. When I stopped receiving letters from her, I did some investigating and discovered that she had died in childbirth, but that you and Henry were still under John's care. From Elena's letters, I did not think he was a fit guardian, but I was sent off to Russia before I could intervene. When I returned to New York last week, I learned that John had died as well. I went to your building, but I was told it had been evacuated. Your Mrs. Banner told me that you had likely brought Henry to the orphanage since she believed that you had nowhere else to go. Since she volunteered there, I accompanied her and immediately adopted Henry. I knew that Luisa would be able to take care of him when I could not. But I always hoped that you would find me."

Beatrice was quiet for a long moment, trying to take everything in. If Ivan was indeed a double agent, it made sense that he would have kept minimal contact with Elena in order to protect her. But to leave Henry with him would mean bringing him in to that life of spies and secrets…

Ivan straightened up and took a step back, folding his hands in front of him. "Now that you are here, I will not protest if you wish to bring your brother back with you. But I also would like to invite you to stay here. Howard set me up with this place—it is not much, but I call it home. Luisa is not just my housekeeper, but a very dear friend. She will take care of you and Henry. Or," he added, looking over at Steve and Bucky, "If you have already made other arrangements, you may visit your brother whenever you wish. You do not need to make a decision now."

Beatrice exhaled and shifted uncomfortably on the couch. The movement must have startled Henry—his bright green eyes opened, and Beatrice didn't have time to hush him before an ear-splitting cry tore from his throat. Luisa moved forward to take Henry, and Beatrice felt a peculiar sense of loss as her brother quieted down the moment he was in the other woman's arms. Here it was, what she had been praying for: a chance to live a comfortable life with Henry without having to worry about having a roof over her head or where her next meal would come from. So why wasn't she feeling more relieved?

Ivan seemed to be waiting for her to speak. "I nearly froze to death looking for Henry," she said quietly. "I was rescued by Steve." She nodded her head at the boys, realizing they hadn't been introduced. "This is Steve Rogers and his friend James Barnes. I—I'm living with Steve now. I'm starting a job tomorrow packaging medic kits for the doctors and nurses on the front."

"Not a munitions factory?" Ivan asked.

Beatrice stared down at her hands. "I don't want to kill people," she said resolutely. "I want to help them."

"As did your mother," Ivan said softly. He appeared to be searching for something in her face, and when he turned away Beatrice wasn't sure if he had found it or not.

"What's Hydra?" Bucky suddenly asked. Unbeknownst to Beatrice, he had moved over to the writing-desk and was standing over it, staring at the papers Ivan had left strewn about. Luisa opened her mouth, but Beatrice saw Ivan gently shake his head, and she fell silent, turning to put Henry back in his crib.

"How about _you_  tell me what you think Hydra is, Mr. Barnes?" Ivan asked quietly. Beatrice rose to her feet. Something had been different about Bucky ever since they had arrived at the house.

Bucky's eyes were hard. "It was a monster in Greek mythology. When one of its heads was cut off—"

"Two more would take its place," Ivan finished. "And such are the evils of this world. You all shall learn that, in time. I am part of a group known as the SSR—the Strategic Scientific Reserve, as is Howard, who provides the majority of its funding."

There was a finality to his tone that even Bucky couldn't ignore. "Yes, sir," he said, taking a step back from the desk but his eyes still lingering on it.

Ivan began to shuffle papers around—protecting sensitive information, Beatrice figured. He must have been so surprised by her visit that he hadn't remembered to hide anything important. "You must not speak of this visit to anyone. Do you understand?"

"I'd trust them with my life," Beatrice said as fervently as she could. Ivan glanced up at her, and a meaningful gaze passed between them. He finally nodded and stepped back. Steve, she noticed, looked surprised but flattered at her words, and Bucky raised his eyebrows slightly but otherwise showed no emotion.

Luisa, who had finished fussing over Henry, hurried over to Ivan to say in a low voice: "Mr. Stark will be expecting you shortly to look over final preparations for the fireworks."

"Of course," Ivan said. He surveyed Beatrice, Steve, and Bucky for a moment. "Do you have a way of getting back to Brooklyn?"

The two boys shared a sheepish look; that had been something none of them had thought to take into account.

Seeing that none of them answered, Ivan smiled. "I shall drive you all home, then."

"You can stay at my place tonight," Steve said quietly to Bucky. "We'll put the couch cushions on the floor and everything."

Bucky's lips twitched for the first time that evening. Beatrice sighed in relief; only Steve could be the one to pull him out of whatever mood he was in. "I'll call my folks and tell them I'm walking Rosie to work tomorrow morning."

"Oh, you don't need to do that," Beatrice said quickly.

"It's only half an hour. It'll be fine. Besides, I work at the Navy Yard." He didn't look at her.

"Well then," said Ivan, "I'll just stop off at Stark Industries to make sure everything is prepared and the three of you can enjoy the firew—"

An ear-splitting bang drowned out the rest of his sentence—it sounded like a bomb had gone off directly outside. Before Beatrice had time to react, Bucky was shoving her and Steve under the desk, shielding them with his body. Beatrice's heart was hammering madly and she heard Henry wailing again, but she was shoved so tightly against Bucky that she couldn't move an inch. She felt his heart pounding inside his chest in tandem with her own, and she shared an alarmed glance with Steve.

The inhabitants of the room seemed to be holding their breath for one long moment—her ears were still ringing—and when everything stayed silent apart from Henry, she could have sworn she heard Ivan chuckle under his breath.

"Dear me, it sounds like all of Howard's fireworks exploded at once," her uncle said, in a tone much more pleasant than the situation warranted. Beatrice guessed this wasn't the worst scenario he had ever found himself in.

"I told you that you should have made sure everything was fine," Luisa scolded as Bucky slid out from under the desk, leaving room for Beatrice and Steve to scramble out.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time one of his inventions has failed," Ivan said as Bucky held out a hand for Beatrice to grab. He hoisted her to her feet and she marveled at his quick reflexes; he had gotten her and Steve under the desk so fast she hadn't even had time to process it. Wanting to alleviate the tension, she went over to Luisa and Henry to make sure he was all right.

"That was certainly an eventful start to the new year," Ivan said as he opened the drapes and peered out onto the street below. "Yes, those were definitely Howard's fireworks."

"A bit more eventful than I would have liked," Steve admitted, sounding breathless. "And before you ask, Buck, I'm  _fine."_

Beatrice heard Bucky chuckle under his breath.

"Now," said Ivan, clapping his hands together, "I suppose we should be on our way before the streets fill up with people who thought that Adolf Hitler himself dropped a bomb onto the Empire State Building."

* * *

The air outside was thick with smoke; it was visible through the dim city lights, rising above the buildings like a slow, heavy fog. From what Beatrice could tell, although people didn't seem to be running in a blind panic, most looked aggravated and irritated. She didn't blame them—she had rather been looking forward to seeing the fireworks, too.

The crush of traffic only began to dissipate once they reached the Brooklyn Bridge; Beatrice turned her head and watched the cloud of smoke begin to clear behind her. Like their ride in the taxi, the three of them didn't speak aloud much. This time Beatrice got to sit in the front with Ivan while Steve and Bucky were in the backseat. She knew they were having an entire conversation with only their eyes; she could see it in the rearview mirror. She could only imagine what they were saying about her now.

Henry had been sound asleep again when they left; it felt like it killed Beatrice to leave without him, but she knew it was for the best: she wasn't about to ask Steve if Henry could live with them as well—and besides, he had looked so comfortable in Luisa's arms, as if  _she_ was his mother. Beatrice leaned her head against the cool window to try to quash her irrational jealousy before it rose up again.

She noticed her uncle kept glancing over at her, and when he pulled up in front of Steve's tenement building he placed a hand on Beatrice's shoulder, indicating he wanted her to stay. Steve and Bucky both gave their thanks for the ride and climbed out immediately. They both glanced back at her after she didn't follow, but continued on to give her and Ivan some privacy. Beatrice watched Bucky pick up a handful of snow and toss it at Steve, who didn't manage to duck out of the way in time before it hit him squarely in the face. As Steve prepared to take revenge, Ivan spoke.

"I will be in New York for the foreseeable future. You don't need to make your decision right away, Beatrice. If you wish to take Henry, you have every right to do so."

She was quiet for a long moment before she spoke again. "I don't know what I want to do. A week ago I would have been able to give you an answer right away, but now…" She saw Steve's silhouette at the door waiting for her and waved at him. He waved back shyly, and she smiled although she knew it was impossible for him to see.

"They are honorable boys," Ivan remarked. "I saw the way James Barnes protected you when he thought you were in danger."

"He's in the army," Beatrice mumbled. "He's been trained to do that."

Ivan made a vague noise in response, and Beatrice realized that she was still wearing Bucky's coat. With a jolt of embarrassment, she quickly pulled it off, folding it over her arms. "It's not like that—" she began, but her uncle held up his arms in a gesture of surrender.

"It is not my place to talk about," he said, smiling slightly. "I am sorry our first meeting went like this, Beatrice, but I am glad that there  _was_ a first meeting between us. You are very much like Elena."

"So I've been told," she said wryly, remembering her conversation with George Barnes the previous week when he had compared her to her father instead. "Thank you, Uncle Ivan. For everything."

His smile widened at the name, and he said, "Rest assured that your brother is in good hands. And for now, I will wish you a good night. You know where to find me."

Beatrice smiled once more at him and then climbed out of the car. She raised a hand in farewell as he pulled away, watching the car drive away until it became a pinprick of headlights in the distance and then faded out entirely.

She hadn't realized Steve had joined her until his voice said from beside her, "Aren't you going to come inside? Bucky's making hot chocolate." His hair was still dripping with snow.

"How could I resist," Beatrice said dryly, turning her back and following Steve back up the stairs to his flat.

"Is that his coat?" Steve asked as he opened the door for her, looking baffled. Beatrice only grinned in response.

Once they were inside, she tossed the jacket on top of the nearest armchair and slumped down onto it as Bucky emerged from the kitchen carrying three steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

"Steve and I are gonna play a game of chess. Want to join?" he asked, offering her a mug and flashing a grin; he was apparently back to his easygoing self.

"But chess is a two-player game," Beatrice said, pulling her legs up under her and balancing the cup on her knees. The thick, inviting smell of warm chocolate wafted to her nose, and she inhaled the heavenly scent deeply.

"No problem," Bucky replied, sitting down on the couch across from her. "You can take over for Steve when he loses."

Steve, who was retrieving a chessboard from the depths of the coffee table, looked incredulous. "I can beat you any day!" he protested.

Beatrice laughed. "Isn't it kind of late for chess? It's nearly one o'clock."

Bucky shrugged. "It's a tradition to stay up all night on New Year's Eve. Besides, my folks aren't expecting me to come home tonight anyway."

"But we have work in the morning," she reminded him as Steve set the board down between them and took the opposite-facing chair to Bucky.

"Then we'll stay awake as long as we can." Bucky raised his mug and Steve and Beatrice followed suit.

"To 1943!" he declared, and the three of them clinked their drinks together. "May Steve stop picking fights with guys twice his size."

"I'll drink to that," laughed Beatrice, and raised the mug to her lips. But she had barely taken a sip when she began to cough and immediately put the glass down, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. It didn't taste like chocolate, but rather like someone had put cocoa powder in alcohol.

"Is this  _gin?"_  she spluttered.

"Vodka." Bucky looked pleased with himself until Steve elbowed him in the ribs.  _"Ow—_ geez, Steve, that  _hurt_ —I mean, are you fine with this, Rosie?"

She blinked. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because of your dad," he replied. "He drank a lot, didn't he?"

"Oh," said Beatrice, touched that they had thought of that possibility. "No, it's fine." She lowered her voice and added, "To tell you the truth, I used to take his whiskey when he wasn't looking. It's a miracle he never caught me. I've sort of given up the habit now, though."

Steve and Bucky both laughed, and Beatrice couldn't help but smile in return. Their enthusiasm was contagious—it tugged her mind away from those dark corners, that memory where she had downed nearly a whole bottle of the stuff and spent the rest of the evening violently sick. After her father's death, Beatrice had vowed to never have a drink of alcohol again, but this wasn't  _cheating_ , exactly, if it was mixed into hot chocolate…

She took another hesitant sip, pleased at the warmth it almost instantly spread throughout her body. The boys had begun their game, both of them leaning over the chessboard intently. Beatrice watched them with interest—both of them were exceptional strategists, planning their moves carefully, although she could tell within the first minute that Steve would be the winner. He knew how to use the pawns to his full advantage, while Bucky went for the power players first—the king and queen.

Sitting there in the dying light, the alcohol lulling her to sleep and knowing that Henry was safe, Beatrice realized that she was happy. She didn't need to make a decision, as Ivan had told her—although she felt guilty for even  _wanting_ to put off the decision—besides, she could always stick with her original plan and work at the factory until she had enough money to move out of Steve's flat and into her own apartment with Henry. If she found one close by, she could still keep in contact with Steve and Bucky as well as getting to know her uncle better.

Bucky cursed loudly as Steve captured one of his knights, jolting Beatrice back into the real world, and she laughed along with them, resting her head on the back of the armchair. During times like these, it was all too easy to pretend that she was finally home.


	8. VIII

Beatrice woke the next morning to a painful crick in her neck and her legs folded into a position she had previously believed to be anatomically impossible. She vaguely remembered drifting in and out of sleep while Steve and Bucky spoke in quiet voices across from her. Now the couch was empty, although the chessboard was still on the table. Someone, probably Steve, had put a blanket over her; Beatrice couldn't believe she was the last one awake.

She stretched her sore muscles and slowly stood up; her stomach churned nervously at the prospect of starting her new job that day.  _It's just packaging supplies,_ she told herself sternly.  _Nothing too complicated._ She'd worked as a typist for several years, after all. But that had consisted mainly of sitting down and inputting information; being on her feet at a factory all day would be quite different.

When Beatrice poked her head into the kitchen, she only saw Bucky, looking appropriately bleary-eyed and more than slightly hungover. "Mornin', Rosie," he greeted her hoarsely, staring bleakly into the depths of his coffee. "Thought you'd never wake up."

"Tonic water," was all Beatrice said, not bothering to hide the smugness in her voice as she walked over to the cupboard to make herself breakfast.

Bucky lifted his head from where it was propped on his hand and blinked sleepily at her. "Huh?"

"For hangovers," she said, smiling at his ruffled hair and the lines on his face from where it had presumably been pressed into the couch all night. "It's a godsend—trust me."

Bucky dragged his hand across his face and attempted to give her a winning grin, but its effect was somewhat muted by his bedraggled appearance. "Of course I trust you, darlin'."

Beatrice was glad she turned away from him in time so that he couldn't see her blush. "So why haven't you tried it yet?" she asked, pretending to be absorbed in her task of pouring a bowl of cereal. She cursed herself for letting him get to her so easily.

"Steve's kitchen isn't that fancy," Bucky grunted. Now his voice sounded muffled; Beatrice wouldn't be surprised if he had dropped it back onto his arm.

"Where is Steve, anyway?" she asked, sliding into the chair across from him, who reluctantly raised his head again. "He's usually the first one awake."

"Deliverin' papers," Bucky replied; his Brooklyn accent was even more noticeable when he was hungover.

Beatrice frowned; this was news to her. "I didn't know he was a paperboy."

"Well, he technically isn't," Bucky said; he appeared to be trying to force himself to stay awake. "He does the odd round when the guy next door can't make it out. Usually not in the dead of winter, though."

Beatrice thought worriedly of his thin coat and tiny frame. "Will he be all right?"

Bucky shrugged. "He's Steve. He'll manage somehow." This was followed by a yawn that he tried and failed to hide behind his hand. Beatrice almost felt sorry for him.

"Look, you don't have to walk me to the factory," she told him. "I'll go by myself."

Bucky stared at her for a moment, so long that she was about to clear her throat awkwardly, before he finally seemed to shake himself awake. "Naw, I have to go to work too. My dad'll skin me alive if I skip today."

Beatrice tried not to let the relief show on her face as she gathered up her empty bowl to wash it in the sink. At least she wouldn't be alone the entire time. Although she knew her way around Flatbush well enough by now, she wasn't an expert on the area and wouldn't know what to do if she became lost on the way to Front Street. Even better, she could finally confront Bucky about his behavior the previous night—and her heart skipped a painful, guilty beat as she realized she hadn't thought about Henry all morning, much less what decision she was going to make.

"What were you and Steve whispering about last night?" Bucky asked. "He had that look on his face when I asked him about it this morning."

"What look?"

"The look when he's lying for someone else."

Beatrice mentally cursed him for choosing this moment to sound more alert. She took her time to plan out her answer before turning back around to face him. "It was nothing, really. I was just questioning his…ulterior motives in helping me, that's all."

Bucky rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, as if asking for divine intervention, before fixing them on her again. "Rosie," he said painstakingly, "You're not still on about that, are you? What could we possibly gain from it?"

"You're a lot less comforting than Steve," Beatrice mumbled. "He said more or less the same thing."

She heard Bucky sigh. The chair scraped back on the wooden floor and he crossed the kitchen toward her. Her back was pressed against the sink; she had nowhere to escape, so she stared down at her feet, tiny next to Bucky's shoes.

She felt his fingers on her chin, pulling it up to face him. Beatrice allowed him to do so reluctantly, praying he couldn't hear her heart fluttering madly, or feel the way her face was growing warm. "Why don't you trust us?" he asked.

"I  _do_ trust you," she admitted. "It's just—Bucky, we live in  _Brooklyn._ I grew up with an alcoholic father and a criminal landlord. There has to be a catch to all of this."

He was silent for another long moment; this time their eyes caught and held, and she couldn't help but notice that he had a spot of brown in his left eye—it wasn't obvious, but it was there. She wondered what he was seeing in her own eyes—she couldn't quite identify his expression.

And then he stepped back, letting go of her. Beatrice's scattered thoughts instantly reformed, although her heart was still thundering away. "There are good folks in this world, Rosie," he said as he made his way to the door. "And Steve—sometimes I think I'm the only one who sees it—but Steve is one of the best there is."

"I know that now," Beatrice said quietly, but Bucky had already vanished.

* * *

After she had gotten dressed into a more professional outfit, combed her hair until it looked halfway presentable, and made herself a sandwich for lunch, it was nearly eight o'clock and she was due at work soon. Beatrice was just buttoning her coat when Bucky reappeared in the front door, carrying a bottle of tonic water. "I went to the store while you were getting ready," he said, uncapping the lid and taking a drink. He offered it to her, but she shook her head. "You're right, it does work like a charm. I'll have to remember this in the future."

"I didn't know you left," Beatrice accused as they stepped onto the balcony, shutting the door behind them.

"Well, I didn't actually go to the store," Bucky explained without a hint of shame. "I know a girl in Park Slope—"

"Of course you do," she interrupted. "At least it's nice to know you listened to me."

"I did say I trusted you, didn't I?" Bucky asked teasingly. They had descended the rickety stairs of the tenement and onto the sidewalk below. The air was brisk and the wind was unforgiving, but at least the sky was blue and cloudless. Beatrice had to hold her hat with one hand to stop it from blowing away.

"So what do you do at the Navy Yard?" she asked Bucky curiously. Unlike her, he didn't look like he had cleaned himself up after the previous night, though he still looked casually handsome in his dark coat.

He shrugged. "Mostly physical stuff. Building and repairing ships. I'm gonna be a hunchback by the time I'm thirty if this keeps up."

Beatrice laughed. "We all have to do our part," she teased.

"If Rosie the Riveter tells me to buckle up, I oughta do it," he said, a peculiar twinkle in his eyes. She made a face at him, and he laughed. A rush of pride swept through Beatrice at being able to make him laugh.

In a burst of bravery, she asked him, "If you get to ask me about a  _private conversation_  between me and Steve, I think it's fair that I get to ask you a question as well."

Bucky spun around so that he was facing her, walking backwards on the sidewalk. "I'm all ears, Rosie," he said, as jovial as ever. "Is it about that girl in Park Slope? If it is, she doesn't hold a candle to you." This was punctuated by a rogue grin. "Or that hot chocolate recipe—"

"You don't have to flatter me," Beatrice said, interrupting him for the second time that day. She wished she could come up with a better comment, something that would match his witty banter word for word. She bet that the girl in Park Slope could do it. "Why were you acting so strange last night?"

Bucky genuinely looked confused, but the expression flashed across his face a second too late. "What are you talking about?"

She thought of him cornering her in the entryway of Ivan's house, his aloof manner, his questioning of Hydra. Beatrice could think of nothing that would bring on his behavior—she wanted to believe it was because he was wary of the situation, but he had been perfectly optimistic about it until they'd walked into Ivan's house. She wracked her brain for the events leading up to that—and then answered her own question.

"I know what it is!"

Bucky looked alarmed.

"You're just upset because you couldn't charm Luisa." It was the only explanation Beatrice could think of.

Bucky's face broke into a relaxed smile. "Of course. I can charm any woman on the planet."

"You haven't charmed me," Beatrice said, although it was a lie—he had charmed her from the moment she had met him.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked.

She smiled sweetly at him. "Only if you want it to be."

A slow, roguish grin spread across his features. "Then I'll take you dancing," he pronounced. "You'll love it, Rosie."

"But I don't know how to dance!"

He waved a dismissive hand. "I do. Besides, you told me last week that you wanted to teach Steve."

"I do, but…"

"It's easy." Before Beatrice had any time to prepare, Bucky grabbed her hand and spun her around the sidewalk. Startled, Beatrice found herself pulled against his chest, his arms encircling her. She barely had time to register what was happening before he let go again, spinning her away from him. She stumbled and caught herself on a crack in the sidewalk, her arms cartwheeling wildly before she landed squarely on her bottom in a snowbank.

Beatrice stared, confused, up at Bucky, who dissolved into laughter before offering a hand to help her out. She pulled herself to her feet ungracefully, brushing the snow off the back of her skirt. Thankfully, no one else was around to witness the incident.

"Are you all right?" Bucky asked her, still chuckling.

"My pride is a bit bruised, but I think I'll be fine," Beatrice said. She felt her cheeks flame as he continued to laugh, and had a sudden childish urge to flounce away from him. He was looking at her with amusement crinkling his eyes, but as if she was a little sister rather than an equal. It bothered Beatrice more than she could say.

"I guess I have my work cut out for me," Bucky said, but he didn't sound as if he minded at all. "As it turns out, I happen to be free this afternoon."

Beatrice's heart sank as she realized that if she fell again, there would be no soft snow to land on.

* * *

As soon as she took a step into the factory, Beatrice began to cough. The air was dark and musty, as if it had barely been stirred in years, though she knew that couldn't possibly be the case. The smell of rubber and mildew permeated her nose unpleasantly.

She was standing in the middle of a room too large for her to comprehend—in fact, it was nearly too large for it to even be called a  _room_ : the ceiling was high, at least a hundred feet tall, with dozens of electric lights hanging overhead, bathing the room in an almost painfully bright light. The walls stretched back farther than she could see.

Tables covered the room, filled with all sorts of machinery and parts—she thought they belonged to some sort of aircraft—and there had to be at least five hundred women lined up along the tables, dutifully keeping the assembly line moving. Beatrice watched them put together an airplane, her mouth hanging slightly open in awe. It was like she had stepped into a massive, highly efficient machine.

"May I help you?"

Tearing her eyes off the almost synchronized movements of the workers, Beatrice turned to face a tall, matronly woman with her hair gathered up in a tight bun and her eyes steely. "Yes, ma'am," she said, trying to discreetly brush the remainder of the snow off her clothes. "My name is Beatrice Hartley, and I was referred here by George Barnes—"

"I am in charge of this entire factory," the woman interrupted coldly, staring down her nose at Beatrice. "I do not memorize names. The only name you need to know is mine, and that is Mrs. Reynolds. Over a hundred women have begun here in the past week. You are merely a cog in the enormous war machine, Miss Hartley."

Beatrice felt as if she was shrinking under her harsh stare. "I'm sorry," she began again. "I believe I am to begin packaging medical kits."

"That is what I wanted to hear," Mrs. Reynolds said, and jerked her head at Beatrice, who assumed that meant she was to follow her. Down she followed the older woman, past rows and rows of women looking like automatons, building planes and weapons and uniforms and everything that could possibly be involved in a global war. Beatrice was beginning to wonder where the factory ended when Mrs. Reynolds stopped in front of a smaller table set slightly apart from the rest, around which stood about a dozen women bent over medical kits with all manner of supplies strewn about the table.

None of them looked up at her arrival, except for a leggy blonde who grinned widely at Beatrice. She hovered awkwardly in front of the table while Mrs. Reynolds went to check a clipboard that was attached to the nearby wall.

"Don't worry about Mrs. Reynolds," the girl said, pausing in her work of rolling up gauze to roll her eyes at Beatrice. "Her sweetheart was killed at Pearl Harbor and she's taking it out on everybody else."

"Oh," said Beatrice, feeling slightly mollified. "That's horrible."

The girl shrugged. "My brother was killed last summer, but do you see me acting like a sourpuss to everybody? My name's Angie, by the way."

"Beatrice," she replied, and took the girl's offered hand. At least there was one friendly face in the factory. "I'm sorry about your brother."

Angie smiled at her, but it was the kind of smile that Steve wore when he talked about his mother—a sad smile that masked the pain beneath. "Since I can't go fight, I gotta do what I can here," she said, gesturing back to the table. "Help any way I can, make sure he didn't die for nothing."

Beatrice's mind inadvertently flashed to Bucky, who could be called overseas at any time. Was that why he had been acting so strangely the previous night? Had he known something Beatrice and Steve didn't? But he had seemed perfectly fine that morning. She imagined standing at an assembly line and receiving word that Bucky had been killed in action. The thought twisted her heart more than she expected. She wouldn't want to just sit around and grieve. She would want to avenge him, too.

The sound of heels clicking on the floor made Beatrice spin around guiltily, although it hadn't been her who was speaking about Mrs. Reynolds. She was holding the clipboard and pen, which she shoved into Beatrice's hands. "You have been recommended by Major George Barnes. Sign your name on the dotted line and you may begin work," she ordered.

Beatrice shared a glance with Angie as she took the pen, signed her name and the date, and handed it back to the supervisor, who nodded her head briskly at Angie. "Martinelli, show her the ropes," she instructed. "I think you will find the requirements are quite stringent here, Miss Hartley. Lunch is at twelve o'clock sharp, not to last a second more over thirty minutes. You are expected to be here at eight o'clock sharp every day and will require approval to leave the facility if it is before four o'clock. You are permitted to speak while working, but nonsense will not be tolerated. Any problems are to be reported straight to me. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Beatrice said, taking her place at the end of the row beside Angie. Mrs. Reynolds, who appeared to have ears like a hawk, heard something being said in another section and immediately walked off without so much as a parting word. As soon as she was out of earshot, Beatrice asked, "Am I supposed to salute?"

Angie giggled. "She'll warm up to you. She remembered my name, didn't she? Just show her that you're a hard worker and she'll go soft on you. Sometimes she lets us take the afternoon off."

Beatrice was convinced that she would have to see such an occurrence to believe it, but she decided to give Angie the benefit of the doubt. The other girl laughed at her expression before gesturing to the table below them. "And I'd better show you the ropes  _before_ she comes back here and erases all the hard work I've done getting in her good graces. Did you know that sweet tea is nearly impossible to find in Brooklyn? I had to take the train all the way to Queens to find some, and even then it's so heavily rationed I had to use up two of my paychecks. I bet she didn't appreciate  _that_ when I gave—um, offered her some."

Beatrice didn't know what to do other than stare at her in astonishment.

* * *

Her shock didn't abate for the rest of the day. She had expected the job to be tedious and repetitive, and while it was both of those to a certain extent, she had never fully appreciated just how much work it was to pack one medical kit. All of the items had to be tested and each kit examined to make sure it contained all of the required items. It took Beatrice a good hour to memorize what went into the kit (gauze, bandages, dressings, water purification tablets, inhalants, sting stoppers, two types of antiseptics, and petroleum jelly) and another hour to remember to check the items beforehand. Luckily she had Angie helping her, and by the time they were released for lunch she thought she was starting to get the hang of it.

It was an indescribable relief to sit with Angie at lunch, who chatted away happily to Beatrice about her family, her apartment at an all-female boarding-house in Manhattan, her desire to become an actress, and her various exploits with men throughout the months she had been working at the factory ("Men aren't allowed in the building, but Reynolds can't see everything at once.") Since she had some sweet tea left, they split their lunch both ways. Angie questioned Beatrice about her life, and although Beatrice forgot to mention that Steve was her "cousin", Angie didn't seem bothered by the fact that an unmarried man and woman were living together, even if the arrangements were strictly platonic. Beatrice felt herself relaxing as the day went on, and by the time the afternoon shift began she was able to contemplate Ivan's offer while stowing bandages at the same time.

She imagined living in a house, an actual  _house,_ in Manhattan (albeit only on one floor) without having to worry about working in a factory or marrying just so she could have money. She would get to take care of Henry and get to know an uncle that meant she still had family in the world. She could feel like she belonged to a proper family again.

But it would also mean saying goodbye to Steve and Bucky without paying them back for all they had done to her. She could still visit them, she knew, but it wouldn't be the same. And what if Ivan had to go back to Russia? What then? Would she have to go with them? Beatrice had never left New York in her entire life; she wasn't even sure if she wanted to. She thought again of the way Luisa had rocked Henry to sleep in half the time it took Beatrice.

Elena would want her to do whatever made her happy, Beatrice knew. But she would also trust her to make the right choice. Going back to Ivan would make her Henry's caretaker full-time again. As he grew up, would he even still need her? What about her  _own_ life? She had almost quit school to get a job and fund her father's addiction; she had taken care of her mother while she was pregnant; and she had abandoned her dreams of becoming a nurse to take care of Henry. But she hadn't had any other choices in those cases. If she knew for a fact that Henry was safe and happy, she could afford to make a decision based on her own needs rather than another's.

So the only question left was one that Beatrice had to answer: what would make  _her_ happy?

"Oh. My. God." Angie's exclamation was a hiss in Beatrice's ear the moment they stepped through the front doors into the blinding sunshine reflecting off the snow. "Who is  _that?"_

Still reeling from stepping into the light after spending eight hours in near-darkness, it took Beatrice's eyes several seconds to adjust, but even so, she knew who Angie was talking about before she even turned her head. Standing by the road was Bucky, his arms crossed and glaring down a shorter, dark-haired figure.

"That's Bucky Barnes," Beatrice replied automatically before realizing it had been a rhetorical question.

Angie looked at her in awe. "Do you know him?"

"Yeah," Beatrice admitted. "I'm roommates with his best friend."

Angie sounded positively delighted. "Is he going steady with anyone? Who's the girl with him? They look like they're arguing."

"I don't think he knows what the word  _steady_  means," sighed Beatrice. "And that's his sister. Rebecca."

The words had barely left her mouth when Rebecca turned away, a frustrated expression on her face. Bucky drew his hand through his hair, seemingly agitated, and then he spotted Beatrice, waving her over to them.

"Is he waiting for you?" Angie asked excitedly. "Can you introduce me?" When she saw Beatrice's face, she quickly added, "I'm just joking, honey. But you  _can_ put in a good word for me, right?"

"Of course," Beatrice replied, and added with a grin, "As long as you bring some more of that sweet tea for lunch tomorrow."

Angie winked at her. "I'll do my best, sunshine," she said, and with a hearty wave went off in the direction of the subway. Beatrice scowled after her. What was it with everyone calling her pet names? Did she look like that much of a child?

She was still mulling over that possibility when she reached Bucky and Rebecca; the latter immediately spoke, a beseeching tone in her voice. "I'm sorry about last night, Beatrice," Rebecca said. "I forgot that Bucky needed the car. He said that he and Steve were going somewhere to help you."

"It's all right," Beatrice told her. "It worked out anyway." She glanced over at Bucky, who didn't meet her eyes. "Right, Bucky?" she asked pointedly.

He cleared his throat and turned back towards her, that half-smirk on his face again. "Yeah, it did," he said.

Rebecca's gaze moved between the two of them, and Beatrice thought she saw something like surprise in it. But then she spoke to Bucky. "I'll tell Mother you'll be late for supper."

Bucky nodded. His eyes were still fixed on Beatrice, who felt immensely uncomfortable. Had she missed something? "Thanks, Becca."

Rebecca gave Beatrice another apologetic look before giving them a wave and walking over to a nearby fire-engine red convertible where Ernest Proctor was no doubt waiting for her.

Beatrice turned back to Bucky once the convertible had driven off. Swarms of workers leaving the factories were surging around them, and her next words were almost lost in the crowd. "I hope you weren't waiting long," she said to him. His face looked bright red from the wind, and she noticed with worry that he was shivering. "You have been. Bucky, why—"

"It's nothing." He waved her off, sounding uncannily like Steve. "Only 'bout an hour."

He was slurring his words again. There was something else with him, but Beatrice couldn't quite put her finger on it. On impulse, she reached down and grasped his hand in her own. She felt as if she was holding icicles. "Bucky, you're freezing," she exclaimed. "Come on, let's get you inside."

He didn't let go of her hand as she pulled him across the street, trying hard not to think about the fact that she was holding  _Bucky Barnes's hand,_ and quickly let go once she reached the other side. "Why did you wait for me?" she asked again, searching the shop fronts until she found a diner and reached for the door. "You could have gone home—I know my way from here."

Bucky stopped her hand before it could open the door fully. His gray eyes were more alert now, searching her face. "I promised to take you dancing," he said. "If you had been any longer, I would have marched in there and gotten you myself."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "Men aren't allowed in there. The supervisor—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know Reynolds," he said, waving an impatient hand. "That's how my old man got you a job there in the first place."

"That's beside the point," Beatrice argued. "What if I don't  _want_ to go dancing?"

Bucky tilted his head and regarded her. She didn't like the way his lips twisted upward, as if he wanted to smile but was forcing himself not to. "Do you?" he asked.

She hadn't expected his question. "Of course," she said, "But—"

"Then let's go," he said, and began to stride down the sidewalk, leaving her with no choice but to follow him.

* * *

The dance hall was a smoky, crowded place, bodies pressed along the walls and moving about the floor in dizzying circles. A deep male voice was singing about a moonlight cocktail. Beatrice immediately made a beeline for the corner like the wallflower she was, but Bucky held her back.

"Want a Coke?" he asked—or at least Beatrice thought that was what he said. The noise drowned out the finer words.

She nodded and he expertly led her through the crowd. She was relieved that his hands no longer felt like ice, although the color still hadn't quite disappeared from his face. Why was he doing this? Did he enjoy tormenting her?

There was a bar at the back of the dance floor that was thankfully empty. Bucky went to talk to the bartender while Beatrice hopped onto a bright red stool. Now that she was finally still, she realized how thirsty she was and she was shaking from not being able to take a break since she had awoken. Her neck was still punishing her for falling asleep in the armchair the previous night.

Bucky returned before she had time to properly gather her thoughts, sliding a glass over to her. Soda was a rare treat for Beatrice, and she drank it eagerly. It was only when she drew back that she realized there were two straws. She offered it to Bucky, who grinned at her before leaning forward to take a drink himself. His hair fell forward as he ducked; she noticed it was slicked back with grease. She didn't remember it looking like that in the morning.

"Thank you for the drink," Beatrice said gratefully. She was surprisingly touched by the gesture.

Bucky grinned easily at her, angling his body to face her. "Anytime, Rosie."

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," she told him pointedly, unable to hold back any longer.

Bucky blinked. "Did you just quote Shakespeare?"

"Yes, I did," she said proudly. "My name is Beatrice. Not Rosie. Would you like it if I called you James?"

"You can try," he laughed. Beatrice took another sip of Coke and tried to look serious.

"All right then,  _James._ It suits you," she grinned.

Bucky watched her, amusement sparking in the depths of his eyes, and laughed out loud. "See?" he asked. "That's how you react to someone giving you a nickname. Not quoting Shakespeare."

"But James  _is_ your real name," argued Beatrice.

"Sweetheart, even my drill sergeant calls me Bucky. I've asked Ma to change my birth certificate at least once a year, but she threatened to make my first name Buchanan instead."

Beatrice's cheeks warmed at the pet name. "I thought Bucky was derived from Buchanan," she said. "Unless Rebecca's story was true…"

He grinned slyly. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

Beatrice laughed and plucked the near-empty glass from his hands. It was comfortable talking to him—it wasn't the same easiness she experienced with Steve, but another kind of easy familiarity. She felt as if she'd known the boys for years, not days. Perhaps his caginess the night before was a remnant from his training, when the fireworks had startled everyone, and so was his argument with Rebecca. He seemed perfectly at ease now, but even so, there was still something…

As if he was reading her thoughts, Bucky's smile disappeared under her gaze. He leaned toward her when she tore her eyes from him, embarrassed.

"How was your first day?" he asked. "There's a prime selection of women working there."

"Yes, enough for you to have your pick with all the men away," Beatrice said drily. She finished the glass and pushed it across the counter.

"If anyone gives you any trouble—"

"—Then I'll deal with it myself. I'm not Steve."

He pursed his lips, considering, and leaned back to regard her carefully. "No, you're not," he murmured. "I can't imagine dancing with Steve. He'd step on my toes."

Despite drinking most of the Coke, Beatrice's mouth suddenly felt dry.  _He flirts with every girl like this,_ she tried to tell herself. _Don't take it personally._ "I'm sure I'd step on your toes, too," she mumbled.

"Well, then, let's find out," Bucky said, and offered her his hand. Beatrice stared dumbly down at it again, for the second time that day, before she carefully took it and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

"We're hardly wearing appropriate attire," she said to him. Most of the girls were wearing dresses and the boys in freshly tailored suits. Those who weren't were slumped against the wall and smoking. Bucky's jacket was dusted with grease and Beatrice's own clothing suddenly felt ragged. She hoped no one could notice the rip in her stockings, or that her feet hurt from standing all day.

"Believe me, Rosie," Bucky breathed, his pupils unusually wide, "Nobody here cares what you look like."

She wanted to stay here, with Bucky achingly close to her. She could feel the heat that radiated from his body.

Beatrice took a step forward and felt Bucky place his hands lightly on either side of her waist. She froze for the briefest of moments, and then her arms reached up to his broad shoulders, her fingers splayed across the rough material of his coat. For a moment, she closed her eyes, shutting out the dizzying world, the smoky atmosphere of the dance hall, the movements of the other dancers. She just wanted to memorize how it felt to have Bucky encircling her waist, the feel of him under her fingers.

She felt him inhale against her, felt the steady, strong pulse of his heart against her chest. "Rosie," he said. His voice rumbled against her. "Rosie, look at me."

Beatrice slowly raised her eyes up to his. They were dark and serious, no spark of amusement behind them. She gasped even as he drew her closer toward him, pulling their bodies together until there wasn't even a millimeter of space between them. She had never been this close to anyone before.

"What are you doing?" she whispered hoarsely.

Bucky ducked his head to whisper in her ear. His breath against her ear made her shudder with the deliberately spoken word. "Dancing."

His hands tightened on her waist, and suddenly they were spinning around, weaving in between the other dancers, Bucky leading her in time to the music like they were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Beatrice could only stare in shock at him. She felt as if her feet weren't even moving of their own accord—as if they weren't touching the ground at all. "How do you do that?" she demanded.

"Do what?" he asked, perfectly innocent. Beatrice opened her mouth to argue, but he shook his head at her. "Let me have my fun, Rosie."

He twirled her past the bar, and as they passed the bartender he met Bucky's eye and gestured to a bottle of gin sitting on the counter. And that was when she smelled the alcohol on his breath. She pushed at his chest, and he released her, looking surprised.

"You've been drinking," she said in disgust. "Was that why Rebecca seemed angry?"

"She wasn't angry. That's just her natural state," Bucky replied with a cocky grin. When he saw that this tactic wouldn't work on Beatrice, he relented. "Look, I'm sorry. I just—here—" He stepped back from her and dug in his pockets for something, but before he could take it out a voice called across the dance floor.

"Bucky!"

Both Bucky and Beatrice turned to see a pretty brunette with a heart-shaped face making her way through the crowd. She was beaming at Bucky, and immediately latched on to his arm. "I  _thought_ it was you," she gushed.

Bucky now looked even more uncomfortable. "Hi, Connie. This is Beatrice, Steve's, um, cousin."

"Hi," Connie said dismissively without even looking over at Beatrice. She ran red-painted fingernails over Bucky's arm. "You promised you'd take me dancing, right?"

"Sure," said Bucky, "But—"

Beatrice's insides were welling up with frustration, confusion, and worst of all, the sudden urge to cry. She forced her best smile. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I know my way home from here." And she turned around and left them.

"Beatrice!" she heard Bucky call from behind her. It was the first time he had ever spoken her name directly to her, but she couldn't take any pleasure in it. After pushing her way past dozens of blissfully dancing couples, Beatrice escaped into the fresh air outside.

She didn't cry as she had feared she would, but it would have been a relief at this point. Her mind was spinning. Just as she had begun to think that maybe she was sweet on Bucky, he had to drink— _drink!_ —before he would even take her dancing. Was she that hideous? Beatrice knew it probably hadn't been any maliciousness on his part, but he knew about her father. She didn't want to dance with anyone who had drunk so much they were tripping over their own feet. She had been foolish to think she had imagined anything between them.

But still, a part of her felt guilty. Perhaps he had been about to show her something important—but what could justify drinking like that? How had she not noticed it before?—and besides, he had clearly been trying to please her. Beatrice hated herself for not having the right reactions.

She kicked morosely at a pile of snow; she could still feel his hands on her, could still recall the glint in his eyes. Of course her first dance had to end like this. And then she hated herself for expecting so much from it. It had just been a dance between two friends. That was all Bucky was—she had only known him for a week.

Beatrice managed to firmly push her thoughts in that direction, and by the time she reached Steve's apartment she was feeling slightly better. She doubted that  _Steve_ would go drinking if she ever asked him to dance—

"Oh!" she exclaimed in surprise as she nearly tripped over a slight figure sitting against the wall next to the door. Steve was sitting next to his front door, his sketchbook in his lap and a pen in his hand. He had been staring so intently at a tree across the street that he didn't appear to notice her. "I'm so sorry—I didn't notice you there."

"It's all right," he said, tilting his head up to look at her. He seemed like a boy in that moment, a far-off look in his eyes as if he had just been jolted back to reality. There was a splotch of ink on his cheek, but Beatrice didn't have the heart to point it out to him. "It's my fault."

"No, it's not," she reassured him, smoothing out her skirt before electing to distract herself and sliding down to sit next to him, stretching her legs out beside his. Steve was taller than her, but only by an inch.

"What are you drawing?" she asked.

Shyly, he held out his sketchbook to her. She had been right—he was indeed looking at the tree. The drawing appeared to have just been started recently—the branches weighted down with snow were all that was recognizable. Beatrice saw he had started on an outline of what looked like a squirrel hanging upside down from one of the branches. Startled, she glanced up at the real tree and, indeed, saw a bushy-tailed creature darting along one of the branches, searching for food.

"That's brilliant," she laughed, not missing the way a light flush covered his cheeks at the compliment. "I would never even have noticed that."

"Actually, I heard it from inside," Steve admitted. He was staring over at the squirrel too, apparently searching for the best way to capture its likeness. "It was kicking up a fuss. I gave it some nuts, but I guess it wants more." He laughed, and so did Beatrice. Only Steve would feed a neighborhood squirrel. Pryce used to threaten to shoot the ones that got in his way.

"When I was a child, my mother used to tell me stories every night," Beatrice began after a moment of companionable silence. "I remember one of them was about a squirrel named Ratatosk. He lived in a tree called Yggdrasil. In Asgard, where the gods live. I used to believe those stories were true." She laughed under her breath even as a pang of nostalgia clenched her heart at the thought of her mother. "Mom said they had been told in her family for generations."

Steve ran a messy hand through his hair, a slight smile pulling at his lips. "Funny—my bedtime stories were more about normal things. Y'know, like the ugly duckling."

"But it turned into a swan eventually," she pointed out. Steve glanced sideways at her disbelievingly. "Anyway, I don't think you're ugly."

"You're in the minority there," he said gloomily.

"Steve—"

But he shrugged, apparently resigned to this fact. "Hey, I could be stuck in the hospital. But I'm stuck as a paperboy instead."

"How was it? You were gone when I woke up this morning."

"All right," Steve mumbled. "It's not much, but at least it brings in some extra money." He turned towards her. "How was your first day?"

"All right," Beatrice echoed. "It seems pretty hectic, but I think I'll be fine. If I don't freeze to death walking there."

"You can use my bicycle," Steve offered. "I never ride it."

"Steve, you've done too much for me already—"

He smiled. "Don't worry about it. It hasn't gotten much use in the past couple of years anyway. You'd be doing me a favor."

" _Steve,_ " she sighed again, unable to think of any rebuttals to his logic. "You're probably sick of me thanking you for everything by now."

He laughed. "Believe me, it never gets old."

They sat in silence for a moment, Beatrice thinking longingly of the hot chocolate that could be made once she got inside, until Steve asked, "Is something wrong?"

She glanced back at over at him, startled. "What? How do you know?"

"You seemed like you wanted to say more when you were talking about your job," he answered. "Not that you have to tell me or anything."

Beatrice hesitated before replying—what if he was angry at her for leaving Bucky? They were best friends, after all—but since she didn't have anyone else to talk to, and she trusted Steve, she admitted her uncertainty about Bucky's strange behavior when she had met him after work and his perusal of alcohol.

"Bucky's a jerk," Steve said so casually that Beatrice laughed in surprise.

"I wouldn't go that far. He apologized, but—"

Steve blinked. "Bucky  _apologized_ to you?"

"Yes. Is that not something that happens very often?"

"I can count the number of times he's apologized to  _me,_ and I've known him practically my whole life." Steve shook his head in disbelief. "I'm surprised he didn't come running after you."

"He did have another date," Beatrice admitted. "She said that he owed her a dance. Her name was Connie."

Steve nodded in recognition. "She's always been all over him. I think you're much prettier."

Beatrice jerked back, startled.

Thinking she was offended, Steve immediately tried to correct himself. "I mean, you're a great dame. Woman! Besides, out of the two of you, you're the only one who has talked to me."

"What a feat," she laughed. "Don't I feel special."

"But that's not all you're upset about," Steve continued, who had an uncanny knack for getting right to the heart of things. "You didn't mind when Bucky was drinking last night."

Beatrice instantly sobered up. "No," she said, struggling for words. "I don't—I don't mind it when people drink alcohol, but…" She had no idea how to explain it to Steve without sounding like she ought to be in an asylum. She didn't like it when it was Bucky? She had thought he was better than that? "He wasn't even drunk! It's ridiculous—I just—I just don't know." She buried her face in her hands, mortified.

"Hey, it's okay," Steve said gently, with the air of someone who was used to consoling girls after Bucky had done something to upset them. Beatrice wouldn't be surprised. "Bucky isn't usually like that. Something must have really upset him…" Beatrice raised her head and saw that he was frowning. She wanted to tell him about whatever Bucky had almost shown her, but something made her keep her mouth shut.

"I don't know," she said again. "I guess it reminded me too much of my dad. He used to visit that dance hall too…my mom had to pull him out of there several times after he'd collapsed. God I—I'm surprised it took him that long to die," she said viciously, and was then immediately ashamed of herself.

Steve, who, she was sure, knew that her real anger wasn't directed at Bucky, but her father, asked, "Did he ever hurt you?"

Beatrice shook her head, the words nearly tumbling out of her mouth. She had never spoken about this to anyone before. "No, he never laid a hand on Mom or I, not even when he was at his worst. He got into bar fights though. He was…absent. He slept all day and would be out all night, stumbling in at dawn. He was physically present, but he wasn't there mentally. In a way, it was worse than if he had hit me. And then Mom kept losing the babies…I was worried that he had hit her, but she said it was just her. That I had barely been born alive. And then of course Henry was the last straw. I'm lucky that two of us made it. She had three other stillbirths that I know about. We buried them in the cemetery. Um, I made sure that Mom and Dad were buried next to them."

"I'm sorry," Steve said softly, and Beatrice knew he was being sincere. "I can understand why you would want to know more about your uncle."

She nodded. "But I don't know if living with him would be the best thing for me. Ivan can't be a father to me. But he can be a father to Henry, and that's all that's important to me. That, and not freezing to death in an alley." She grinned despite herself.

Steve cleared his throat. "Beatrice, I— _we_ —want you to stay here. That is, if you want to. I know Bucky feels the same way."

Relief flooded Beatrice's chest, rising up into her throat. She had to wait for her airway to clear before she could say, "I'm glad you said that, because I made my decision today. I'd like to stay here. If that's okay—"

"Of course it's okay," Steve exclaimed. His face broke into a wide grin. "You can stay here for as long as you want."

"Good, because I wasn't planning to move out," Beatrice joked, and they shared yet another wide grin, which was broken when Beatrice heard the sound of footsteps leaping up the stairs and thudding towards them.

She got to her feet when Bucky appeared, disheveled and looking as if he had just run ten miles. Beatrice was about to joke that he should stop sprinting around Brooklyn in the middle of winter, but she didn't imagine it would go over well.

"Hey, Buck," said Steve, and Bucky affectionately ruffled his hair but still kept his eyes on Beatrice.

"Why'd you leave like that, Rosie?" he demanded. Beatrice sighed; so it was back to that nickname again. At least it was a step up from "doll". "I had no idea where you went."

"Excuse me, but you had found another partner," Beatrice shot back. Steve's head was moving back and forth between the two of them as if he was watching a tennis match. "I don't exactly think she wanted to share."

Bucky ran a hand over his face in frustration, a habit that he did more often than Beatrice's heart liked. "I wasn't dancing with  _her_ ," he said. "Okay, well, I did promise her a dance last time I saw her, but I would have waited until we were finished."

"Luckily, you didn't have to," Beatrice said coolly, opening the front door. Bucky, of course, followed her inside. Steve, who was nothing if not tactful, stayed outside to finish his drawing.

"Listen, Rosie, I'm  _sorry,"_ Bucky said. "I didn't think about your dad at all. God, if I'd thought—I just got a letter and went straight to the bar. I wasn't able to think about anything else."

Beatrice, who hated the way her annoyance at him was evaporating as quickly as it had sprouted, fought to keep an angry expression on her face as she unbuttoned her coat and turned to face him. "Think about what?" she asked.

Bucky strode towards her and shoved a piece of paper into her hands. "Look."

She glanced down at it warily, recognizing the insignia of the U.S. Army right away. Scanning the first few lines, she realized with a jolt that it was a letter summoning Bucky to a military base in New Jersey during the spring.

"It's usually the last training they have you do before you're shipped out. Don't tell Steve," he almost begged. "He'll probably start trying to enlist again."

A cold sweat suddenly broke over Beatrice's skin. She stared up at Bucky in shock. "Isn't—isn't there anything you can do?" she asked through suddenly dry lips.

Bucky shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck in agitation. "It's too late, Rosie. I signed up a year ago. I'm lucky I haven't been shipped out yet."

"But part of you wants to go fight," Beatrice amended; she could read the look in his eyes well enough.

Bucky glanced up at her, looking shocked and seemingly unsure how to react, before he slowly nodded. "Yeah. I don't know how to feel about this whole thing, to be honest. I used to think I could be a great soldier like my dad. But then I heard the stories and when I went to basic training…well, what if I'm killed? Who will look after Steve then?"

"I will," Beatrice said steadily.

"What do you mean?" Bucky asked. "Have you decided to stay here?"

She nodded shyly. "Yes. I just made my decision today—I don't think there really  _was_ any decision, really."

Bucky's anxious face lightened into a wide smile that made Beatrice feel as if all the light in the world was pointed directly at her. "I knew you'd make the right decision, Rosie," he joked. "Now you can continue to embarrass Steve."

Beatrice rolled her eyes and turned to hang up her coat. When she glanced back at Bucky, she saw he was looking at the ground thoughtfully, his mouth quirked and his eyebrows slightly furrowed as if he was confused about something. As soon as Beatrice spoke, he immediately snapped back to attention. "… _But_ I have one condition," Beatrice said, holding up her finger. "You don't get to act like that again without telling me."

He mock-saluted her. "I promise, sweetheart," he joked. Beatrice laughed and flopped into the nearest armchair.

"You're not still mad at me?" he asked, leaning over the top so that Beatrice was staring up at him.

"I was never mad at you."  _Just jealous, but there's no way I'm telling you that._ She shrugged. "You did seem upset about something."

"Was I?" Bucky asked. "Connie didn't say anything—but then again, she can't see me like you do."

"Huh?"

"You can see me." His voice was surprisingly gentle. The way he was looking at her was making her insides feel like they were melting. "And more importantly, you can see Steve. That's all that matters to me, Rosie."

"Of course I can see you," Beatrice said, baffled. "I'm not blind, you know."

Bucky made a sound that was halfway between choking and laughter. "Earlier, when you told me that I wanted to go fight…how did you know that?"

"I could see it in your eyes."

"Steve couldn't," Bucky said wryly. "Unless I'm just letting my guard down around you."

"You don't want him to see you hurt," Beatrice replied. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

Bucky was slowly shaking his head now. "You're a miracle, Rosie," he said, and Beatrice's heart soared right out of her chest, her cheeks warming in surprised delight.

She just wished that was true.


	9. IX

The worst part about working in a factory, Beatrice decided, were the seemingly endless hours of standing. There were no benches or chairs to sit on when she wanted to rest, and no alternatives when her hand seized up after the constant, repetitive motions on the assembly line. The only time she  _could_  rest was during the lunch break, which always ended far too soon. There was a rare Friday when Mrs. Reynolds would appear to take pity on her workers and let them off an hour early, but those were rare Fridays indeed. Beatrice had quickly developed blisters and calluses on both her hands and feet, which even cream couldn't eradicate. At least she had Steve's old bicycle to shorten the commute, but even the added exertion of biking against the wind caused her muscles to scream in protest the following day.

Beatrice's favorite part of the week was early on Saturday mornings, where she would soak in an hour-long bath that was a welcome relief to her aching muscles and blistered feet. She would heat up the water using the kettle and add boiling water to the rest of the bathwater. Sometimes the water was so hot that Beatrice would no longer be able to feel any part of her body that was submerged, and it was always an indescribable relief.

She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, which was fogged up with steam, while trying to tease a brush through her uncooperative hair. Angie had tried to teach her how to curl her hair on several occasions—the other girl liked to duplicate the styles she saw in magazines—but Beatrice's hair was too thick. She winced as the brush tangled in a knot, and yanked it out painfully. Her reflection, which had already misted up again, looked much better blurred than it did when it was cast in sharp relief.

After being forced to conclude that she was fighting a losing battle, Beatrice put her brush down and turned away from the mirror. She dipped her fingers in the bathtub to check the temperature before untying her robe and stepping into the bath.

The water came up to her shoulders, just reaching the tips of her hair. Beatrice leaned her head back against the edge of the tub and forced herself to relax. She stared up at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything in particular, but as usual, her mind wandered to one person.

It had been almost eight weeks since she had announced her decision to continue living with Steve—eight weeks since she had danced with Bucky and felt his hands on her. They hadn't gone dancing again, but as the temperature outside slowly rose and the snow began to melt, Beatrice knew it was only a matter of time before he brought up the suggestion again. Now that spring had officially arrived, there were bound to be numerous social events and festivals that Bucky would drag Steve to, and by extension Beatrice as well. He had already promised to take both of them to the World Expo in June. She felt her heart pick up speed at the thought of being so close to him again—their friendship had been one of banter and playful teasing—but nothing as raw and real as their conversation at Christmas had been. Perhaps Bucky had realized that Beatrice wasn't going to be the latest girl whom he paraded around New York with on his arm, and had given up. The thought always made her stomach clench.

She was getting better at catching herself when she thought about Bucky, so she only allowed herself a brief moment before she tried to clear her mind again. Reaching for the bar of soap next to her, Beatrice scrubbed furiously at the factory grime still stuck to her skin, trying to distract herself. It didn't work this time, though, and an entirely unbidden—although not completely unwelcome—image of her walking in on Bucky in the bathtub just as she had walked in on Steve popped into her head.

It wasn't the first time she had had such a thought, nor, she was certain, would it be the last—but it was enough to make her entire body flood with heat and another feeling that she didn't quite understand. Humiliated, Beatrice slid down in the water until she was completely submerged as if hiding from her own thoughts.

Sometimes she felt like Bucky knew every thought she'd ever had about him, both the platonic and the most decidedly  _not_ platonic ones. It only made her that much more uncomfortable around him. But if he knew what she truly thought about him, she figured, why wasn't he holding that knowledge over her head? Could he, perhaps, have noticed it but been just as embarrassed by her infatuation as she was? What if he thought of her as a sister, like Rebecca?

A distant noise from outside the bathroom echoed in her ears, muffled and distorted through the water. Beatrice emerged, gasping, to the surface, straining her ears. She hoped Steve hadn't accidentally blown up the kitchen trying to cook breakfast—he had certainly come close on more than one occasion.

She was wringing out her hair when she heard the distant cadence of Bucky's voice in the parlor, followed closely by Steve's reply. Beatrice was startled—he usually never came over so early in the morning. The sound she'd heard must have been his knock.

Somehow the thought of Bucky being just a door away from her while she was bathing made Beatrice's heart drop into her stomach and do a funny flip. She quickly rose and climbed out of the bathtub as quietly as possible, grabbing a towel and her robe while pressing her ear against the door to better hear their conversation.

"…gone for a week," Bucky was saying. "I'll be back next Saturday."

"Great, Buck," Steve replied, sounding unusually cheerful. "Have a good time." There was a pause, and then he added, apparently unable to hold himself back, "I should be going with you."

"You shouldn't."

"Why not?" Steve asked. He sounded defensive, as if daring Bucky to answer. "Because I'll be sent to the hospital on the first day?"

"No," Bucky replied smoothly. "Because all of the  _other_ guys will be sent to the hospital on the first day." She heard him clap Steve on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, pal. I don't want you or Rosie getting in trouble while I'm gone."

"It's only for a week," Steve protested. "Besides, I have a feeling that Beatrice will be the one taking care of me."

"That's what I'm hoping for," Bucky said. Another moment and she heard the creak of the front door as it closed.

Beatrice slipped into her robe and wrapped another towel around her dripping hair, nearly dashing into the parlor. Steve was standing by the front window watching Bucky leave. He looked startled by her appearance. "Beatrice," he said. "I thought you were, um—"

"In the bath," she finished for him. "Yes, I was. But I heard you talking to someone."

Steve nodded and sat back down on the couch, where a book lay open on the cushion next to him, its spine bent. "Yeah, that was Bucky. He got called to training camp in New Jersey and wanted to say goodbye before he left."

Beatrice worried her bottom lip. She had kept good on her promise not to tell Steve about the letter Bucky had showed her that called him to the army base in the spring. Of course, spring had seemed so far away back then. But now that it was finally upon them, Beatrice realized the days—weeks—had passed by like they were nothing. "Does this mean he'll get his official orders soon?" she asked.

Steve shrugged. He didn't meet her eyes. "Two weeks, two months—it's gonna be sometime soon. And I'm not there with him."

"Why are you so determined to fight?" Beatrice asked quietly. "Surely there are other jobs—"

"I'm not gonna sit in an assembly line while Bucky is putting his  _life_ on the line—"

"I'm sitting in a factory all day," Beatrice said. "Is my work somehow lesser, then? Because I'm a woman?"

Steve's eyes widened; at least, she thought with a touch of smugness, he knew that he had put his foot in his mouth. "It's not that, Beatrice—"

She crossed her arms, aware of how ridiculous she must look but not caring. "You want to prove yourself."

"Yes," said Steve; he was clearly fast becoming tongue-tied. "They won't even give me a chance."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows, her tone cool. She had the upper hand, and he knew it.  _I'm doing the best I can, Bucky,_ she thought before adding, "All right, so  _you're_ supposed to be given a chance to fight, but I'm not because I'm a woman? You don't want to be stuck here with us because you see it as lesser than serving on the front lines. How do you think many of the women feel? At least you get the chance to enlist. We don't."

Steve slowly closed his book and stood up. "So you're saying that you think I have a chance?"

Beatrice could feel herself yielding against the indomitable force of Steve's will. "No," she said quickly. "I'm telling you not to enlist. You'd be a better help here than you would in Europe."

"Bucky put you up to this, didn't he?"

It was the closest they had ever come to arguing. "Yes," she admitted. "And no. It's dangerous, Steve. Besides, if you keep enlisting they'll eventually catch you—"

"You don't think I can fight, either." His voice was eerily calm.

"That—that's not it!" Beatrice sputtered. Somehow in the last thirty seconds, their roles had become reversed. "I just—I've seen what war does to people. I grew up knowing that my father's only escape from nightmares was the bottom of a bottle. Yes, he survived, but he didn't  _live._ Look,  _I_ wanted to become a nurse and help people, not sit around being a pencil pusher. It's too late for me to help Bucky, but I can try to help you."

Steve's mouth was already open to fire back a retort, but at her words he slowly closed it again. He stared at her. "Beatrice…" he began, but let his words trail off. He appeared to be scrambling for something to say.

Beatrice, meanwhile, was shocked by her own outburst. She suddenly felt like she'd said too much. No, she didn't want Steve (or Bucky) to go fight, but there was nothing she could do about it. Had she stepped over the line? "I'm sorry, Steve," she blurted out. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'm sorry, too.  _I_ didn't mean to imply that working in a factory wasn't good enough." He sighed. "For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be like my dad. To fight. To prove myself. And I can't exactly prove myself by listening to everyone." He grinned wryly and held both hands up as if in surrender. "I know the consequences and I'm willing to pay the price, whatever it is. I just want people to give me a chance."

Maybe he  _did_ have a point, Beatrice thought. She wasn't his mother, after all. She couldn't force him to stop enlisting. And then, suddenly, she heard Bucky's voice in her head. "What the hell did you do, Rosie?" he would demand. She could picture the horrified look on his face all too clearly. "You were supposed to  _dis_ courage him, not  _en_ courage him!"

 _Yeah, well, have you ever tried arguing with Steve?_ she thought sourly, and snapped back to attention when she realized he was staring at her. "Beatrice?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said. Damn James Barnes for showing up in her thoughts again. He had made a permanent home there, it seemed. "I was just, um, thinking about getting dressed. You know…" She gestured to her robe and towel-covered hair lamely.

Steve's cheeks turned pink, as if he suddenly noticed that she was still barely dressed, and turned away from her. "Yeah. Yeah, before Bucky came over, I was gonna ask you if you were doing anything today." His words came out in a rush.

Beatrice smiled. "As a matter of fact, I am. I'm going to visit Henry and then seeing a movie with a friend from work." She paused. "Would you like to come along? I'm sure she—Angie, you've heard me talk about her—would love to meet you."

Steve glanced up at her again, looking hopeful. "Really?" he asked.

Beatrice nodded. "I'm certain of it."

* * *

She made it a point to visit Henry every Saturday afternoon, so when Luisa answered the door and said that Ivan was at a meeting with Howard Stark that day, Beatrice tried to mask her disappointment. She had gotten to know her uncle well over the past two months, and he regaled her with stories of him and Elena as children, and, very occasionally, a (declassified, Beatrice assumed) story about his time spent gathering intelligence for the American government—including one very amusing anecdote about the time he and Stark had been attending a speech by the president in Washington, when Stark had made advances on the president's wife. Ivan had had to pretend to be Stark's chauffeur and escape from dozens of security guards following them while Stark hid in the backseat.

From what she had gathered, he spent most of his time in Stalingrad when he was in Russia, even having purchased a home there, but it had been destroyed during a violent battle for the city the previous winter, which had been what precipitated his move back to New York in the first place. He'd even spoken of returning soon to rebuild it—and the only thing Beatrice could think was  _Please don't bring Henry._ She knew, of course, that Ivan couldn't stay in New York forever, given the nature of his job, but Beatrice missed her brother every day even when she still saw him regularly. She didn't want to think of him living thousands of miles away from his birthplace, in a war-torn country and learning to speak a language that wasn't English. Ivan had every right to bring Henry where he wanted—and Beatrice had to respect that—but she wasn't ready to part from her brother so soon.

"Is something wrong, Beatrice? You look like your mind is a million miles away," Steve said. Beatrice tore her eyes from where she had been staring blankly at a grove of huddled maple trees and smiled at him.

"I'm fine," she replied. "I was just thinking about Henry."

They both glanced down at the baby in question, who had been freed from his carriage and was sitting at Beatrice's feet, chattering in indecipherable babble and looking delighted with himself. He had grown so much since Ivan had adopted him—Beatrice swore he became bigger every week. His cries had turned into garbled noise that sounded almost like speech, and he could crawl and even toddle a few steps if he had something to hold on to. She could no longer hold onto him without tiring like she used to.

They were sitting on a bench in Central Park, watching the joggers and cyclists pass them by and listening to the distant rumble of traffic. Beatrice was used to going on solitary walks around the park with Henry, but having Steve there made her happier than she could explain. He didn't feel any pressure to fill up the silences with words or scold her when Henry threw a tantrum. There was no one in the world Beatrice felt more comfortable with. By now, after having shared the same flat for two and a half months, Beatrice felt like he knew almost everything about her, from late night talks after she'd had a nightmare or even simply sitting silently in the parlor while he sketched and she knitted an outfit for Henry. Before she had met him—or rather, met him  _properly—_ she would never have believed such a thing was possible.

As usual, Steve's encouraging silence got her to say more than any question ever could, inviting her to speak only if and when she wanted to, and she found herself saying more than she had intended. "I'm thinking about what will happen if Ivan needs to move away from New York and take Henry with him," she confessed. "I know that I have no right to be worried about this, because I took this into account when Ivan adopted him, but last week he was talking about the SSR wanting him to move back to Stalingrad and I…I'll have no control over what happens to Henry anymore. It's just such a…dangerous part of the world. And so far away," she added lamely. Steve, however, looked thoughtful as he pondered her words. Recognizing the expression on his face, she quickly interjected, "And please don't offer to allow Henry to live with us, either. You'd go insane within a week. Besides, then we'd have to pretend to be married, and that charade would be impossible to keep up."

Steve turned his customary shade of red before laughing, breaking the tension. "You think I couldn't handle a baby?" he teased.

"Says the man," Beatrice grinned, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. Her heart suddenly felt much lighter. Only Steve had that effect on her. "Henry's a little demon, I swear. You just haven't spent enough time with him to learn that the hard way."

Steve, who could never back down from a challenge, climbed off the bench and knelt down in front of Henry, who grabbed a handful of grass in his chubby little fist and threw it at Steve. Beatrice stifled a giggle. Steve was excellent with children when he thought no one was watching—Beatrice had pretended not to notice him playing monsters with Henry, making scary faces at him to get him to laugh. It was only when he knew he had an audience that he began to stumble. Beatrice could certainly relate to that.

She sat down beside him too, her dress fountaining out around her, and scrunched up her face at Henry, who had recently realized that things he did got reactions out of those around him, and had grabbed her nose hard when she'd picked him up that morning. It still throbbed painfully at the thought. He wasn't impressed with her tricks this time, though, and appeared far more interested on a sparrow that had alighted on a rock several feet away. He turned his attention to it eagerly and began to crawl over to the bird, moving faster than Beatrice would have guessed he was capable of. Steve reached out and gently drew him back as the bird gave them what Beatrice imagined was a disgusted look and flew off.

"Not so fast, little fella," Steve told him as he crossed his legs and balanced Henry on his lap, trying to stop him from squirming away again. "Your sister would never forgive me if I let you get away."

"I don't think it's you I need to worry about," Beatrice mumbled. And then, ridiculously, she felt tears prick at her eyes. She quickly brushed them away, but of course Steve saw. She was about to dismiss it as allergies when he spoke.

"Hey." His hand hovered over hers, shaking slightly as if he was deliberating the gesture, and then closed around it before giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze. "It's gonna be all right."

Beatrice sniffled, hating how pathetic she sounded. "I hope so. I just don't want to lose the two family members I have left. I'll be—I'll be completely alone. I thought I'd lost everything before, but I always had Henry."

Steve smiled at her, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "You won't be alone," he said.

* * *

When Henry began to fuss, wanting to be fed, Beatrice decided it was time to take him home. Ivan still wasn't back from his meeting, so Luisa insisted Steve and Beatrice stay for lunch. She fussed over Steve, worried that he wasn't getting enough to eat, before pulling Beatrice aside and telling her that she should feed him more often. Beatrice didn't have the heart to tell her that she couldn't  _make_  Steve do anything—but she still walked away with extra food stuffed in her purse. At least they could have late-night snacks sometime.

The movie theater was crowded with people waiting in line to buy tickets—Hollywood certainly wasn't suffering as much as it could be, Beatrice thought. She stood on her tiptoes to search for Angie while Steve went to buy popcorn. As she scanned the crowd for her friend's familiar face, she crossed her fingers and hoped Angie wouldn't mind that she had brought Steve along. Beatrice was relying on Angie's easygoing demeanor and her reputation as being a charming flirt to win Steve over. Now, if it had been  _Connie_  she was going with, she wouldn't even have considered it for a second. How could Bucky go out with someone like her when she wouldn't even give his best friend the time of day? The thought irrationally angered Beatrice.

"What movie are we watching?" Steve asked. Beatrice jumped slightly—she hadn't noticed him coming up beside her.

"Casablanca," she told him, finally giving up on her search and turning toward him. "Have you heard of it? Apparently it's quite popular."

Steve nodded. "I think Bucky took a few girls to see it a couple months back. Doubt he spent any time actually watching it, though."

Beatrice was so preoccupied trying to quash her sudden surge of jealousy that she barely noticed when someone tapped on her shoulder. "Hey, sunshine," Angie chirped. Beatrice whirled around to see her standing behind her, grinning widely. "I brought a friend with me—I hope you don't mind."

A blond boy snaked his arm around Angie's waist, and she jumped and giggled into his shoulder.  _"Gary,"_  she protested. Beatrice's heart sank—at the realization that he could be a taller, more muscular version of Steve, and the look on Steve's face when he noticed it. Steve cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced down at his shoes.

"Actually, I brought a friend too," Beatrice said when Gary nodded gruffly at her. "This is Steve Rogers."

He glanced shyly up at Angie and smiled hesitantly, but Beatrice noticed it didn't quite reach his eyes. Angie's face lit up when she saw him, startling Beatrice. "Oh, you're her  _roommate,"_ she said, with a devious wink at Beatrice. "You're just adorable. She told me you were best friends with Bucky Barnes, right? He's an absolute dream. D'you think you could give me his—"

"Actually, he's going steady with someone," Beatrice interrupted, the words flying out of her mouth without any input from her brain. "It's, uh, it's very serious. There's even talk of them being engaged, right, Steve?" She gently nudged his shoulder.

He jerked in surprise. "Huh?  _Oh,_ right, yeah." He waved his hand. "Very…steady."

Gary and Angie exchanged a confused look. Sensing a disaster was waiting to happen, Beatrice met Steve's eyes and indicated an empty alcove behind them. Not waiting to see if he'd gotten the message or not, she turned back to Angie. "We haven't gotten our tickets yet," she explained. "You two can go ahead into the theater—we'll meet you in there."

"Are you sure?" Angie asked. "We can wait here if you want—"

"It's better if you save seats," Beatrice replied. "The place looks like it's filling up quickly."

Angie glanced over at the line already forming outside the cinema doors and shrugged. "Sure," she said. "I'll wave when I see you come in."

"Thanks," Beatrice answered, relieved as she watched Angie twine her arm around Gary's and lead him away, chattering about how romantic the film supposedly was.

"Come on," she whispered to Steve under her breath and walked over to the alcove. He followed her, looking bewildered.

"Why'd you tell her Bucky was going steady with someone? I don't even think he's gone on two consecutive dates with Connie."

"Never mind that," Beatrice said. She cast a furtive glance at the waiting moviegoers and was about to ask him if he was all right with going on a double date to a diner afterwards when someone roughly brushed against her arm, knocking the popcorn to the floor. She jumped back as a shower of popcorn landed on her feet and scattered on the floor around them. A massive, broad-shouldered boy who easily took up half of the corridor was walking away from them; he didn't appear to have noticed that he'd bumped into Beatrice.

Until Steve called after him.

Beatrice realized what he was about to do a second too late. "No!" she cried at the same time Steve shouted, "Hey!" and began to stride after him.

The boy stopped instantly, as if he had known what Steve was going to do, and slowly turned around. He bared his teeth in an expression Beatrice could only describe as a leer. "I remember you," he said in an uncannily deep voice. "We met in Brooklyn back in '39. I dumped you in the trashcan and closed the lid over you after I'd beaten you to a pulp. I'm surprised you got out."

How, Beatrice marveled, did Steve not turn tail and run? She would have been halfway out of the state by now. But he stood his ground. "Apologize to the lady," he insisted.

The brick house doubling as a human laughed. "And what if I don't? What are you going to do about it, shrimp? Come on, let's take this outside. Whoever loses gets to apologize to her, huh?"

"Actually, no—" Beatrice began uselessly. She could already see Steve squaring his shoulders. He began to stride toward the emergency exit without looking back at Beatrice. Brick House looked positively delighted as he followed him at a much more leisurely pace, rolling up his sleeves as he did.

Bucky was going to  _kill_ her.

Beatrice was about to call for help when Angie appeared beside her again. "They're letting everyone inside now," she said. "Did you get the tickets?"

She looked around wildly between Angie and the door, which had just swung shut behind Brick House. "Actually, I don't think we're going to be able to make it," she said desperately.

Angie frowned. "Where's Steve?"

"Um, he's sick. In the restroom throwing up. It looked pretty bad," Beatrice lied, beginning to inch away. She prayed that Angie got the hint.

Unfortunately, her friend still looked baffled. "Does he need medicine?" she asked. "I'll ask Gary to get him some Pepto-Bismol."

"No, that's fine," Beatrice said. Finally abandoning all pretense, she positively ran toward the door. "I'll explain everything later, Angie!"

She didn't know whether or not Angie called after her. She burst outside into a narrow alleyway littered with garbage bins that reeked of stale popcorn and nearly hit the opposite wall. Brick House stood threateningly over Steve, who was struggling to stand after apparently being thrown down with one hit. Beatrice could see a trail of blood running from his nose.

Steve shouted something at her, but his words were cut off as a punch squarely to the jaw sent him sprawling to the ground. Brick House turned slowly to her, a leer again spreading across his face. "Is your girl gonna have to finish this for you?" he asked an unresponsive Steve before striding toward Beatrice, who stared at him in horror and only able to think of one thing.

When she was a child and getting ready to leave for her first day of school, wearing a freshly laundered dress and her hair tied up with bows, Elena had knelt down in front of her and told her firmly, "If a man ever makes unwanted advances toward you, you get as close to him as you possibly can and kick directly upward, and run away as fast as possible."

Beatrice had always solemnly nodded and agreed—it wasn't until she was much older that she'd understood Elena's concerns—but she'd never needed to actually heed her advice until now. So, keeping her mother's words at the forefront of her mind, she gritted her teeth and kicked Brick House between the legs as hard as she could.

He immediately choked and staggered backward, his hands curling around his waist. Beatrice was stunned that it had actually worked, and terrified that he would recover quickly—she couldn't run away without going  _past_ him, and she wasn't going to leave Steve—

And then Brick House howled again and collapsed to the ground. Beatrice stared at the person who had dealt the second blow—Steve was on his feet again, bruised and breathing heavily but still standing, brandishing the trash can lid in front of him like a shield.

Brick House didn't move, so Beatrice figured he was out for the time being. She stepped over his unmoving body and made toward Steve, about to lay into him for doing something so indescribably stupid, when Steve dropped the lid and wiped his sleeve over his bloody nose. He looked so pleased with himself that Beatrice's anger dissipated within an instant.

"Are you all right?" Steve asked her, as if he hadn't been the one who had been sent flying against a brick wall. "Did he hurt you?"

Beatrice had made a vow to never drink alcohol again, not after what it had turned into her father into, but she was beginning to think she might make an exception that day. "No, Steve," she said in exasperation. "I'm fine."

"I had him, you know," Steve replied, staring down at his attacker, who was clearly unconscious but appeared otherwise unhurt.

Beatrice didn't even dignify that with a response. "Come on," she sighed, glancing at his bloodstained sleeve. "Let's get you cleaned up."


	10. X

The rest of the week passed uneventfully—or at least as uneventfully as it could when living with the most accident-prone person in all of Brooklyn. If certain people could attract bad luck like the Empire State Building attracted lightning, Beatrice thought, then Steve Rogers would be the conductor.

He was up before dawn almost every morning delivering papers, and that day had woken up with a head cold. He insisted he didn't have a fever and would recover within the day, but Beatrice made him rest and brought him soup anyway. His constant coughing and sneezing had ensured that neither of them had gotten any sleep the night before. She was grateful to slip out the door after he had fallen asleep on the couch, a thin blanket wrapped around him and his sketchbook lying open on his lap. She didn't want to think about what Bucky's reaction would be if he found out that Steve had gotten into a fight and become sick while he had been gone. Beatrice was planning to tell him neither of those things—if they were lucky, Steve would be able to hide any evidence of his cold the next day and Bucky wouldn't arrive back home until late. Beatrice guessed he would see his family first before venturing across Brooklyn to visit Steve.

And speaking of Bucky…her thoughts had been almost constantly circling around him for the past week, as if her mind was tuned to a radio frequency that was impossible to switch. On Wednesday, she had nearly cut her thumb off with the sharp edge of a razor blade she was packaging, saved only by Angie's quick reflexes. She hadn't told Angie that she had been thinking about Bucky, but even so her friend had correctly pinpointed the reason for her distraction.

"You're in love," Angie had declared, to Beatrice's embarrassment.

"I'm not!" she had vehemently demanded, to which Angie had tutted and shaken her head in a motherly sort of fashion.

"Believe me, I know that look when I see it. Don't give me those doe eyes, sunshine. It's Steve Rogers, isn't it?"

"No—"

"You're blushing. Did you know you do that a lot?" Angie had looked triumphant, sure she'd finally caught her.

"It's not Steve," Beatrice had protested, but her protests had grown weaker as the day wore on. There was no stopping Angie once she made up her mind. At least she hadn't seemed inclined to march all the way to Flatbush and try to wrangle a proper confession from Beatrice. Angie was too starry-eyed over Gary to concentrate on much else—which was a great relief for Beatrice. The other girl was so observant that if she ever saw her and Bucky together, Beatrice was sure Angie would figure it out in an instant.

By Thursday, Beatrice had given up on trying to control her thoughts altogether. She'd had an extremely vivid dream the previous night where she had been dancing with Bucky in an empty dance hall, save for the band playing a mournful march. Bucky had been dressed in an army uniform and Beatrice in the blue nightgown that had been her only salvaged possession from the flooded tenement. She was soaking wet and shivering, and Bucky had held her so close to his body that she felt like she was about to melt into him. "The war'll be over soon, Rosie," he had murmured into the shell of her ear. "And when it is…"

But he had never finished his sentence—instead he had leaned down to her, his lips a hairsbreadth away from her own, and just before they had kissed Beatrice was jerked awake, shivering just as hard as she had been in the dream. Her arms were wrapped around her pillow as if she had actually been holding Bucky. It had taken a long time to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream.

In fact, although she was loathe to admit it, she had dreamt about Bucky almost every night in some form or another, her heart aching every time she awoke. Perhaps absence really did make the heart grow fonder. Beatrice was both terrified and exhilarated by this rush of new feelings, which had previously only been known to her in much duller forms. She hoped she would be able to put on a brave face and a sincere smile when she saw Bucky with a ring on his finger and a beaming girl on his arm—who was looking more and more likely to be Connie at this point. Soldiers the world over were proposing to their sweethearts the day before they went off to fight. Beatrice wasn't entirely certain that Bucky would want to tie himself down to anyone just yet, especially since there was another continent full of European women just waiting for a handsome soldier to rescue them, but if  _she_ was Connie, she would want to make sure Bucky was hers before he left.

But she wasn't Connie, and Bucky wasn't hers. And he never would be. Beatrice forced herself to face that fact head-on as she rang the doorbell of Ivan's brownstone. Her thoughts were still so clouded with Bucky that it took her longer than it should have to notice when Luisa opened the door.

"Here for your weekly visit, are you?" Luisa said, wiping her hands on her apron, which was coated with flour. She must have been baking; Beatrice wondered what could have warranted such an occasion. As soon as she stepped inside the house the smell of warm pastries enveloped her, and she took a deep breath, inhaling.

"Have you gotten that scrap of a boy to eat more?" Luisa asked as they began to climb the stairs.

There was no point in trying to explain Steve's extreme stubbornness and blatant refusal to heed any well-intentioned advice, so Beatrice just said, "Yes, ma'am."

Luisa looked pleased. "Good. Tell him that if he ever wants some genuine Italian food, he comes to me, you hear?"

"Of course."

They had reached the landing by now, the smell of fresh baking growing stronger with every step. Beatrice opened her mouth to ask Luisa if it was a special occasion when they entered the sitting-room and the question answered itself. Ivan was sitting at his desk, looking ragged—there were dark circles etched under his eyes and his clothes looked rumpled, as if he hadn't changed out of them for days. He was speaking in a low voice to another man Beatrice had never seen before; their whispers stopped as soon as they saw her.

"Beatrice," Ivan said at once, standing up to greet her. "I should have told you I would have a guest over this weekend. This is Dr. Abraham Erskine, a colleague and friend of mine at the SSR. Dr. Erskine, this is my niece, Beatrice Hartley."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Erskine said, rising as well to shake her hand. He was older than Ivan but not quite elderly; he wore round glasses and his hair stuck straight up as if he had been playing with static. Even though it was warm in the house, he wore a white laboratory coat and looked like the kindly old man in Prospect Park who was always feeding birds with scraps of bread. But the most surprising thing about him was his accent—Beatrice could have sworn that it was German. There weren't many Germans living in her area of Brooklyn, and those that did were ostracized and avoided.

"Dr. Erskine is an extremely reputable scientist who has proven to be one of our most trustworthy allies," Ivan said, looking proud. Beatrice couldn't help but smile at his assertion as she walked over to see Henry in his crib—he had managed to pull himself up on the bars and was peering curiously out at them. She lifted him up easily when he raised his arms to her and balanced him on one hip as Luisa handed her a blueberry muffin.

Ivan ran a hand through his messy hair again and averted his eyes from the sight. He had sat back down at his desk, but Erskine was still standing, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he examined a paper on Ivan's desk. The atmosphere was not the casual, relaxed one that Beatrice was used to seeing on the weekends. This was something different—something she wasn't sure she wanted to hear about. She watched Erskine carefully as he studied Ivan's notes. He looked and sounded like the famous German scientist Albert Einstein—Beatrice couldn't help but wonder if he was really Einstein in disguise, and decided that she wouldn't put it past Ivan, or rather, Howard Stark.

She gently lowered herself onto the armchair while bouncing Henry on her knee, as he'd begun to fuss. Luisa hurried over with a pacifier and a stuffed bear to soothe him, and Beatrice fought to control her jealousy as Henry fixed his unblinking stare upon her. She murmured something in Italian to him and he giggled, pulling on a strand of her hair.

Across the room, Ivan cleared his throat and stood up, clasping his hands behind his back as he began to pace in a line between his desk and Beatrice's armchair. He opened his mouth, uncharacteristically nervous, before seeming to rethink his words and shut it again. "How are your friends—Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers?" he asked her.

"They are doing well," Beatrice replied slowly. Now she was certain that something was amiss. Ivan was pacing, Luisa had gone back into the kitchen, and Erskine was standing several feet behind Ivan, watching the red-haired man expectantly. "Pardon me, uncle—but is something bothering you? You seem upset."

She forced herself to sound as polite as possible and not betray the fact that her heart had suddenly begun to race. Her fears were confirmed when Ivan stopped short, his eyes flickering between her and Henry sitting on her lap. "I am sure you recall that last weekend I was attending a meeting with Howard when you visited."

Beatrice nodded hesitantly. She was sure she wasn't going to like where this would lead.

Her suspicion was made all the more obvious by Ivan clearing his throat and avoiding her eyes. "Howard believes that it would be beneficial to have eyes and ears in Stalingrad, considering the events that have recently befallen the city. Since I have spent many years there, he thinks that I am the best candidate."

All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. The only thing Beatrice could think of were her words to Steve the previous week, words that she never possibly believed would come true so soon. She'd had her suspicions when Ivan had been called to an impromptu meeting on a weekend, but hearing the words still sent a shock through her system. She suddenly wished that Steve was there—he would be able to calm her down.

Ivan was speaking again, and Beatrice had to force herself to process his words. She imagined Erskine looked sympathetic, though he was pretending to be absorbed in Ivan's desk.

"Luisa and Henry will be joining me," her uncle was saying apologetically. "We are going to pose as a family—it will arouse less suspicion that way."

Beatrice had expected this final blow, and she was distantly proud of herself for acknowledging him with a tense nod of her head. What else could she have expected, anyway? That Ivan would never be sent away on a mission again and she would be free to visit Henry whenever she pleased?

He seemed to relax, as if she had taken the news better than he'd expected. "I wish I could give you more details, Beatrice, but I am sure you understand that the work I do is highly classified. To give away any more information would not only jeopardize me, but your brother and perhaps even yourself as well."

"I understand," Beatrice said in a small voice. She hoped he couldn't tell that she was forcing the words out. Even Henry had stopped squirming.

Ivan stopped pacing in front of her chair and knelt down so that they were face to face, so that she had nowhere to look other than in his eyes, as green and bright as her mother's had once been. "Please understand that Henry will have the utmost care and protection, Beatrice. Neither Luisa nor I will allow him to come to any harm. He is safe with us."

Hearing the fervency in his voice, Beatrice was left with no other choice than to believe him. Still, she hated the idea of being separated from her brother in any shape or form. Living across the river from him was one thing. Living across an ocean from him was another. "How—how long do you expect to be gone?" she asked, dreading the answer.

The ghost of a sigh escaped Ivan's lips as he sat back on his heels, breaking their gaze. "All estimations point to the end of the year," he said.

It was better than Beatrice had feared, but even so—what was she supposed to do? She couldn't ask to accompany them and force Ivan to change his plans just for her; besides, she had already told him that he was now Henry's guardian for all intents and purposes. He had the right to move whenever and wherever he wanted. She tried to ignore the twinge in her heart that made an appearance whenever she thought about leaving Steve and Bucky. "When will you be leaving?"

"Monday," Ivan admitted, and Beatrice's arms tightened around Henry.

 _Two days._  She had two days to get used to the fact that her brother would be leaving for good. She wouldn't be able to kiss his hair again, or hug him close to her and breathe in his warm scent, or see his smile, or say his first word. She wouldn't be able to watch him grow up. Nine months wasn't a long time in the grand scheme of things by any stretch of the imagination, but at Henry's age every  _week_  brought a new development. She tried to imagine what he would be like when he was a year and a half old; when he would be walking and talking. Would he even be taught English, or would he learn Russian to keep up the pretense? And the very worst: what if he didn't remember her when they returned to New York? The very notion of Henry not remembering her shattered Beatrice's heart.

Ivan smiled sadly, as if he knew what she was thinking, and patted Beatrice's knee. "Of course you are welcome to write as often as you wish," he said. "I will provide a mailing address when I have more information."

"And she'll come to see us off Monday morning," Luisa said, appearing behind Ivan and smiling sternly but lovingly at him, as if he was her son. They would have to work a bit harder if they wanted to appear like a married couple rather than two adults with a wildly skewed power dynamic. "Won't you?"

"Of course," Beatrice said firmly—at least she would get to say a proper goodbye to Henry. "At the New York Harbor, right?"

"Eight o'clock sharp," Luisa nodded as Ivan rose again and gestured to the man still standing by his desk. Beatrice gave a small start; she had almost forgotten that Erskine was still present.

"While I am gone, I am entrusting any questions you may have to Dr. Erskine," Ivan explained. "Should any problems arise, or should you need to contact me urgently, you may go through him. He is the most direct link to the SSR at this time."

Beatrice looked at Erskine, who was smiling in a paternal sort of fashion. "Are you sure you don't mind, sir?" she asked him. "I wouldn't want you to feel obligated—"

But the doctor—or was he a scientist?—was shaking his head. "Of course I do not mind, Miss Hartley," he said. "You may talk to me any time." He reached into his pocket and moved forward, handing her a slip of paper with an address on it that Beatrice recognized as being located in Queens.

"Howard recommended it," Ivan told her, taking a croissant from Luisa's plate of baked goods. "He likes everyone who is close to a member of the SSR to have an inside contact when they are absent. There are eyes and ears everywhere," he added, with a wry grin.

Beatrice blinked. "Howard Stark…knows about me?" she asked, slightly taken aback. The thought of someone as famous as the millionaire inventor knowing who  _she_ was was difficult to wrap her head around.

"He does," Ivan confirmed. "If I am not mistaken, he wishes to meet you sometime. Unfortunately he is in California at the moment, so that particular occurrence will have to be postponed. I have asked Dr. Erskine to schedule an appointment with him as soon as he returns to New York."

Beatrice's awestruck expression must have been a sight to behold, since both men laughed at her reaction. Some of the tension in the atmosphere had dissipated, but the uncomfortable churning in her stomach proved that she was still very much worried about Henry. Was it really so selfish of her to be upset that Ivan was taking him to Russia? Beatrice's mind was working frantically to think of possible solutions, but none of them were practical or feasible.  _It's just until the end of the year,_ she tried to tell herself, but her arms tightened around her brother all the same.

A shrill ring sounded from Ivan's desk, startling Beatrice. Her uncle immediately sprang into action, hurrying across the room and digging in a pile of papers to locate the source of the noise. The wind of his passing caused several of the papers to float to the ground, and Beatrice could just make out the words "Project Rebirth" before Erskine retrieved it.

Ivan had somehow managed to unearth a telephone from the chaos that was his desk and answer it. "Yes?" was all he said tensely, untangling the cord from a spiral-bound notebook. When the person on the other end responded, Beatrice saw him noticeably stand up straighter. "Yes, Colonel. We'll be there right away. I am just resolving a…family matter." There was a short pause. "I haven't spoken to Howard since his departure. He is currently overseeing prototypes for the Stark Industries pavilion at the World Expo…" Ivan sighed, and added grudgingly, "Yes, he believes that he has drawn working blueprints for a flying car."

Beatrice's eyebrows shot up. Even Erskine looked mildly impressed. The colonel didn't appear to share their sentiments, however, since Ivan replied wearily, "I understand that he has other obligations, but—yes, I'll see what I can do. Goodbye." And with slightly more force than was probably necessary, he put down the receiver and turned to his captive audience.

"Colonel Phillips needs us at headquarters," he said to Erskine. The doctor inclined his head and began to move toward the door. Sensing it was also her cue to leave, Beatrice reluctantly handed Henry over to Luisa, promising herself that she would say a proper goodbye to him on Monday. Nevertheless, her heart ached as if she really was leaving him for good.

"I hope you understand that nothing of that conversation is to leave this room," Ivan said to Beatrice as she passed him. He was smiling, but Beatrice could hear the undertone of solemnity in his voice.

"Of course not," she said, giving her head a firm nod. She was touched that he trusted her enough to even let her listen to a one-sided conversation that was clearly not meant for her ears. She had only known her uncle for the better part of three months, and in some ways he felt like another father figure—or rather, the father figure that she wished she'd had.

Unable to resist turning around to get one last glimpse of Henry, now back in his crib, Beatrice only managed to see a flash of his flame-red hair before the door closed behind her. She exhaled and ran her fingers through her own dull brown hair, wishing she'd taken more after their mother too, before beginning to head down the staircase where Ivan and Erskine were waiting for her. Beatrice had never seen the other inhabitants of the house, but she assumed that Howard had set up other members of the SSR there as well. It was almost tragic, she thought, that Ivan had deliberately ostracized himself from his sister in order to keep her safe, but now Elena was the one who was dead and her children had no one else but him to turn to.

Ivan strode ahead of them once they emerged out onto the street, presumably not wanting to displease the colonel, but Erskine stayed behind to walk with Beatrice. The entrance to the subway was only half a block ahead; Beatrice watched her uncle pass easily through the throngs of New Yorkers and disappear into the Stark Industries building.

Erskine must have followed her gaze, since he glanced back down at her, a kindly twinkle in his eyes, and asked, "Are you familiar with the works of William Shakespeare, Miss Hartley?"

"Well," stammered Beatrice, taken aback by the question, "Yes. Some of them, at least."

"In one of his plays—I believe it was called  _Twelfth Night_ —is the quote 'Some are both great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them'."

"Wasn't it some  _men?"_ Beatrice asked with a tiny smile. A man wearing a tailored suit and glasses strode out from the Stark Industries building and brushed rudely past them, but Erskine steadied her by grabbing her arm.

He inclined his head toward her in agreement. "Yes, but I wished to include you in it."

She thought of Steve, who had surely been born great. Howard Stark had achieved greatness. Bucky was going to war, even if he didn't want to—he'd had greatness forced upon him. "What about people who are not destined for greatness?" she asked quietly.

Erskine smiled at her. "Everyone is born with the potential to be great, Miss Hartley."

* * *

Beatrice arrived back at the tenement with a heavy heart and a dejected manner. Usually she flew up the stairs coming home, but now every footfall felt like a herculean effort. She had been so optimistic when she left, and now she felt like a deflated balloon. She hoped that Steve was still asleep so she would be able to cry without fear of him hearing her. She was so lost in her own melancholy thoughts that she didn't even notice the black Ford parked outside the building.

The front door was unlocked when she walked in, but she didn't fully realize the implications of that until she walked through the parlor and saw Bucky sitting in the armchair. Beatrice did a double take, all thoughts of Henry and Ivan flying out of her mind. _"Bucky?"_  she asked dumbly, as her heart skipped several beats in a row. He must have come home sooner than she'd expected. She had never seen him in his uniform before, an olive drab tunic and wool trousers with a peaked cap that bore the symbol of the United States Army. He looked carelessly handsome as usual.

A quicksilver grin flashed across his face, and despite herself, Beatrice felt a smile spread across hers in return. "The one and only," he announced, easily leaping to his feet and striding toward her. For one wild, hopeful second, Beatrice thought he was going to kiss her, but he just squeezed her shoulder in greeting, her skin tingling at his touch. She felt her cheeks warm, which deepened into a blush when he pulled off his cap and placed it on her head, pushing the brim down over her eyes so she couldn't see. It reminded her of something he would do to Rebecca, and she quickly pushed the cap back up, embarrassed.

"Hi, Beatrice." Steve stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a steaming bowl of soup. "How's your brother?"

Beatrice did her best to wear a neutral expression as she replied, "He's fine. I think he'll probably start talking soon."

Steve's face broke into a smile. "That's great!" He held out the bowl of soup. "Anyone want some?" he asked.

"No thanks, kid." Bucky looked amused as he plucked the cap from Beatrice's head and placed it back on his own. "I don't want to catch your pneumonia."

"It's not pneumonia!" Steve protested, but his subsequent sneeze was pathetic enough. "It's just a cold."

"Sounds like it," Bucky said dryly. "Anyway, I came over to see if either of you wanted lunch at my place. Ma and Becca are cooking."

"I'd love to," Beatrice exclaimed, a bit more fervently than she intended, but Steve sighed.

"I'd better not, Buck," he said reluctantly. "Wouldn't want to get your family sick."

"That's all right, pal," Bucky replied amiably. "Next time, then." He turned to Beatrice and grinned. "Looks like it's just you and me, Rosie. I take it you kept him out of trouble."

Beatrice was so surprised she didn't have enough time to think about her lie. So she ended up stammering, "Um, actually…that didn't go as well as I planned."

Bucky rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, slowly turning back around to face Steve. "What happened  _this_ time, Rogers?" he asked with a heavy sigh.

Beatrice gave Steve an apologetic look as he insisted, "Nothing. It was fine. We're both in one piece." When Bucky refused to back down he finally admitted, "Geez, Buck, I just got in a fight with a guy at the movie theater who was rude to Beatrice. That's all."

"And how many nights did you stay at the hospital?" Bucky asked. Beatrice wasn't sure whether or not he was serious.

"I helped him out," she said quickly as both boys turned to her. "I, um, kicked him. And then Steve knocked him out."

"With a trash can lid," Steve added helpfully.

Bucky's mouth fell open in a perfect "o" shape as he stared accusatorily at them. "For the love of God. Steve, you're an idiot. Did you tell him that?" he demanded of Beatrice.

"I used slightly different wording, but yes, I did."

"I can take care of myself," Steve argued.

"Clearly," Bucky snorted. "You're killing me, Steve. I'm gonna have a heart attack one day and it'll be your fault."

"Actually, it would be my fault," Beatrice interjected, hoping to divert Bucky's attention away from Steve. "He stood up for me—not that I wanted him to," she said firmly.

"Oh, I don't blame you, Rosie," Bucky said, but his expression softened when he looked at her. Beatrice forced herself to maintain eye contact. "He goes after anyone who looks at someone else the wrong way. But…where  _did_ you kick this guy, anyway?"

* * *

After bidding goodbye to Steve, who was left with no other option but to accept defeat, they left the flat and made their way to Bucky's car. He held the passenger door open for her—Beatrice wasn't sure why that small gesture made her insides feel like jelly—and when he climbed inside, she couldn't help but notice just how close their legs were on the front seat. Had the car somehow gotten smaller, or had she simply not noticed their close proximity beforehand?

Bucky, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb. With one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift, he glanced over at her. Beatrice quickly looked out her own window, pretending to be transfixed by the buildings flashing by.

"What's bothering you, Rosie?" Bucky asked.

When Beatrice dared to peek over at him, he had turned his eyes back to the road, but his expression was serious. Beatrice hadn't realized he was that perceptive.

"I'm not upset," she lied.

"Sweetheart, I'm best friends with Steve," Bucky said, oblivious to the fact that every time he called her an endearing name warmth spread throughout her entire body. "I know when someone is lying."

Beatrice twisted her hands and stared down in her lap, hoping if she got this over with quickly it would hurt less, like pulling off a bandage. "Ivan is going to Russia," she mumbled. "He's taking Henry with him."

She heard him take a breath and then exhale slowly. "Rosie…" he began, but the name trailed off into the air. Beatrice looked up at him again; they were stopped at a traffic light, and now he was giving her his full attention. If she hadn't known any better, she would have thought there was something like worry in his gray eyes. Dark circles ringed them, and he had more than a hint of a five o'clock shadow. Some tangential part of Beatrice's mind was focused on wondering just how much sleep he'd gotten in the past week. "When are they leaving?" Bucky asked.

Now it was Beatrice's turn to pause. "Monday."

She saw his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel; the light had turned green but he was driving very slowly. The sunlight reflecting off his irises turned them a rich blue-gray; Beatrice forced her thoughts back to the present. "You're not going with them, then?" he asked. His tone sounded strange, although she couldn't quite put her finger on the reason why.

"How can I?" she retorted, unclenching her hands and spreading her arms out. "Ivan is his legal guardian now, and I don't want to interfere with his work. It sounds like they've been planning this for a while. Besides, I have a life here in Brooklyn, and I can't ignore that."

She saw Bucky's shoulders relax, as if he had been holding his breath. "I'm sorry, Rosie," he said quietly.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault," Beatrice said. She was concentrating very hard to force the tears back.

Bucky seemed to sense that she wasn't in the mood for further conversation; he didn't speak until they pulled up in front of the Barnes's house. Beatrice gave a small start; she hadn't realized they were in Brooklyn Heights already. "I'll smuggle you in quickly so Becca and my mother don't realize you're here," he said, with a smirk. "Unless you want to cook while they shout orders at you. It's like being in boot camp all over again."

Grateful for the change of topic, Beatrice nodded and climbed out of the car, spotting George Barnes talking to a lanky boy who couldn't have been more than eighteen. Beatrice's hand flew up to cover her mouth when she realized that the boy's entire right arm was missing, a stump at the end of his shoulder the only sign that there had ever been a limb there.

"That's Donald Smith," Bucky said in a low voice right next to her ear. Beatrice couldn't help the shudder that passed through her body when she realized how close he was to her, and hoped he wouldn't interpret it as disgust. "He lost his arm at Tripoli and was discharged last month."

She remembered overhearing a conversation between Bucky's parents at Christmas—Winifred had mentioned that the "Smith boy next door" had received his orders and was soon due to be shipped out to Europe. She hadn't given the offhand comment another thought until now. A wave of pity engulfed her as she stared at the boy. "How is he?" she asked. "I mean, aside from the missing arm."

Bucky's lips twitched. "He's got a girl who'll take him even if he had no arms. He'll be all right." As if to prove his point, he raised a hand and shouted, "Hey, Donald!"

Both Donald and George turned at his words. Beatrice saw Donald grin and raise his good arm to wave back. George clapped him on the shoulder in farewell and began to walk over to Beatrice and Bucky, while Donald made his way back to his own house. It was difficult to keep her eyes off his arm—or where his arm should be. Beatrice wondered how many soldiers were being sent back home with similar injuries.

"Hello, Beatrice," George said when he reached them. "My wife hoped you would be joining us this afternoon. How is work at the factory?"

"Very well, thank you," Beatrice replied. "I can't thank you enough for that, sir. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have a job at all."

"It is my pleasure," George said, with another smile at her, before turning to his son. "Is Steven coming?"

"He's sick," Bucky said as the three of them began to make their way up the front steps. "Another cold."

George chuckled. "That boy should move closer to a hospital."

"I've been telling him that for years, but he won't listen to me," Bucky mused.

Beatrice had been in the Barnes's house a handful of times, usually to have supper, so seeing the house in broad daylight was rather odd. There were more windows than she'd ever noticed before, and now that she could see the furniture and paintings more clearly, she realized they weren't as ornate and new as she had thought: several of the paintings were chipped, and the furniture was worn. Something about the house that betrayed its inhabitants' past, that they hadn't always lived in a grand brownstone in the wealthiest part of Brooklyn, was comforting to her.

"Beatrice!"

She turned her head to see Winifred hurrying towards her. Bucky's mother, who had clearly become a surrogate for Steve, appeared to have taken on the same role for Beatrice. She enveloped Beatrice into a hug before pulling back and smiling at her. "I'm glad to see you've put on some weight since I saw you last. You're looking so much healthier."

She was infinitely grateful that Bucky was talking about the car's faulty brakes with George and wasn't paying attention to them. The last thing she wanted was for him to start looking for places where she had gained weight—which unfortunately hadn't been her chest.

"Do you and Rebecca need some help preparing the meal?" Beatrice asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Oh, of course not, dear!" exclaimed Winifred. "You are our guest. Just relax and don't be afraid to tell James off if he starts to misbehave." She smiled fondly at her son as if he was a boy again and when Bucky turned at the sound of his name she brushed a speck of dust off his uniform.

"Aw, c'mon, Ma," Bucky said, stepping back out of her range. George had settled onto the sofa with his pipe and Beatrice dimly heard Rebecca calling for Winifred. With one more smile at Beatrice, Winifred hurried out of the sitting-room, stopping to pinch Bucky's cheek on her way out. Beatrice laughed at their antics while another part of her watched in fascination: so this was what a family was supposed to be like.

"Come on, Rosie," Bucky said, and beckoned her from the foyer. Curious, Beatrice followed him up the winding staircase and to the very end of the upper hallway. She had never been this far in the house before.

Bucky was standing in the middle of a bedroom that, though larger than Steve's, was much cleaner. The bed was neatly made and the desk next to the closet, while cluttered, at least had some level of organization. A pile of books was pushed against the wall, partially obscuring what looked like a chemistry set. Beatrice took a step closer and saw that they were all science and engineering textbooks. "Is this your bedroom?" she blurted out.

"Yeah." Bucky looked almost sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. He tossed his cap onto the bed and moved to open the curtains covering the window.

Beatrice felt as if she had stumbled onto something private, even though Bucky had brought her in here of his own accord. She was used to being in Steve's room, but then again she was also used to living with him.

"I didn't know you were so interested in science," Beatrice teased before she could help it, looking at the chemistry set. She saw a miniature model of an airplane which looked as if it had been hastily shoved under the desk and bent down to get a closer look.

"I went to art school for a year with Steve, but it wasn't really my thing," Bucky admitted. "That's the only decent thing I made there."

"It's lovely," Beatrice told him, straightening up and noticing that he had taped several newspaper articles advertising the World Expo over his desk, next to the typical male posters of cars and pinup girls. There was even a picture of a high-school-age Bucky and Steve propped up on the desk at some sort of science fair.

"I figured I'd never given you a proper tour of the house before," Bucky said, but he made no move to leave the room. Beatrice thought he sounded almost nervous—she would have thought his seemingly unbreakable ego would have been able to withstand any blows she threw at him.

Wanting to reassure him, she said, "I don't think I've ever been  _inside_ a house this big before." It worked; Bucky relaxed and began to regain more of his usual bravado. Beatrice's curiosity was too much for her to contain; she walked over to the window, and, looking out, saw that it offered a pleasant view of the street below and the front garden. A rose trellis wound up the side of the house, ending just beneath the window. She refrained from commenting, rather sarcastically, that it would be perfect for any girls who wanted to sneak into his bedroom at night, and turned back around.

He appeared to be waiting for her to say something, so she asked him the question that had been weighing on her mind all week. "How was the training?"

Bucky glanced away from her and leaned against the bedpost, staring down at his hands. "Fine," he said. "It was necessary. I was told that I'm going to be shipped out sometime this summer."

Beatrice's heart dropped. "Were you…were you given a date?"

"No. But I wouldn't be surprised if it was sooner rather than later." Bucky still wasn't meeting her eyes. Beatrice scrambled for something to say.

"Isn't Ernest going off to fight?" she asked, thinking of Rebecca's sweetheart: she assumed that they were still together.

"He got conscientious objector status, but we all know it was because of his father's influence. He's the mayor of a town in Connecticut."

Bitterness pervaded his tone, and Beatrice thought she had finally discovered the reason for his apparent dislike of Ernest besides his audacity to go steady with Bucky's younger sister. "So there's nothing you can do," she said quietly.

"Nothing," Bucky replied with grim finality. "Unless the war ends before I get there."

"You never know," Beatrice said lightly. "By the way, Connie came around a few times."

Bucky glanced up, looking almost startled. "To Steve's place?"

Beatrice nodded. "She wanted to know where you were. Apparently you didn't tell her you would be gone."

"I didn't," Bucky muttered, staring down at his hands again. "There was no need for her to know."

"I thought you were going steady. She said you promised to take her to the World Expo in June."

"Yeah, but she asked me first. And we're not going steady."

Beatrice was surprised at the vehemence in his voice; before she could question why, there was movement from the doorway and Rebecca appeared, the family's cat in her arms. "Lunch is ready when you are," she told them. Beatrice didn't miss the way her eyes flickered back and forth between her and Bucky.

"Thanks, Becca," she said, smiling at the younger girl. When she turned back to Bucky, he was still staring at her with a look that rooted her to the spot. "Bucky?" she asked, a bit breathless.

"Sure thing, Rosie," Bucky replied, although Beatrice wasn't sure he had even heard a word that Rebecca said.

* * *

Three thousand miles away, in an impenetrable fortress buried deep within the Alps, Arnim Zola was bent over a microscope, examining the inner workings of his latest creation. He had spent nearly a year perfecting this design—soon he would know if his hard work had finally paid off.

"Dr. Zola!"

He immediately snapped to attention as Johann Schmidt strode into the laboratory, wearing his military uniform and his hands clasped behind his back. "Good evening," Zola replied, with more than a touch of nervousness to his voice. His eyes landed on the case Schmidt was holding, which was giving off a very slight blue glow. Surely Schmidt didn't expect him to be finished already? "My designs are nearly complete. A month, two at the very most."

Schmidt laughed, the harsh sound echoing throughout the room, and carefully placed the case on the windowsill, the bay window reflecting the bright snowcapped mountain peaks beyond. "That is not the design I am here for today, Doctor," he said. "Nevertheless...I will be expecting progress soon."

"Of course," Zola replied eagerly. "The combatants can already withstand an energy surge as long as—"

"Come," Schmidt interrupted, his tone dismissive, and waved a hand in Zola's general direction. The doctor paused, slightly disappointed, but obediently scuttled to his side.

Schmidt was standing in front of one of Zola's most recent inventions, a radio that had been fitted with a complex system of circuits that made instantaneous communication possible without the threat of surveillance. "I was told there was a message for me."

"There is," Zola confirmed, noticing the flashing red light on the button where the dial should be. He knelt down in front of it and began to fiddle with the knob as static buzzed through the room, searching for the correct frequency. He gave Schmidt's case another nervous glance. "And the artifact?"

"I am hoping the energy given off will make for a clearer call," Schmidt replied. He sounded coldly amused as he stared down at Zola. "Do I detect a hint of fear in your voice, Doctor?"

"No, of course not," Zola said quickly, rising to his feet. "It is just…unnatural. I have never seen anything like it before. It is powerful. Dangerous."

"And that is exactly what we want, isn't it?" Schmidt asked, with a twisted grin. Zola thought he could see the outline of scarlet burning just under his skin, and turned away uncomfortably. He did not respond to Schmidt's question, sensing it had been rhetorical. No further explanation was needed; now that his assistance had been given, he was no longer useful. Schmidt's refusal to prompt further conversation was dismissal enough. Zola retreated gratefully back to his workspace while keeping one eye fixed on the other man.

An odd buzzing filled the laboratory, so loud that it hurt Zola's ears. For a second, he feared his invention had not worked—but then it lessened and he could hear another man speaking through the radio, his voice as crystal clear as if he was standing feet away from them.

"Herr Schmidt," said Heinz Kruger smoothly. "I trust everything is going well with you."

"Yes, the plan is progressing as well as expected so far," Schmidt answered, glancing back at Zola, who pretended to be absorbed in his work. "The energy latent in the Tesseract will soon be transferred into our weapons. One of the Führer's top scientists has been assigned to the project."

Zola was trying so hard not to draw any attention to himself that he fumbled with his screwdriver and dropped it to the floor. He quickly retrieved it before it could roll under the table and cocked an ear toward Schmidt again, but the conversation had already shifted.

"I understand you wished to speak to me," Schmidt was saying. He was staring across the laboratory, out at the mountains—or perhaps at the Tesseract. Zola couldn't be sure.

"Yes," Kruger replied. "I have found Erskine."

Now he had Schmidt's full attention; he immediately snapped to attention and stared at the radio as if he could see Kruger in person. "Where?" he demanded.

"New York. I accompanied the American senator to a conference at Stark Industries when I saw him. He was accompanied by Ivan Romanov, a high-ranking employee. You may recall—"

"Yes, yes, Hydra has been monitoring him for quite some time," Schmidt snapped impatiently. "He is of no threat to us right now. At least we know that Howard Stark is somehow involved in this. Of course he would wish to ally himself with someone powerful who can fund his…flawed inventions."

Kruger cleared his throat. "There was a woman with them, but she did not follow them into the building."

"It's not Carter, is it?" Schmidt demanded, whirling back around to face the radio.

"No," came Kruger's voice, and Schmidt relaxed. A snowstorm had begun outside; to a casual observer, he would have seemed as if he was admiring the view rather than being lost in thought.

"Good," he said. "Carter already cost me Erskine; if you ever come across her you have direct orders to kill, understand?"

"Yes, Herr Schmidt."

"Do you have anything on the girl?" Schmidt asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Kruger sounded smug. "Her name is Beatrice Hartley. She is Ivan Romanov's niece."

"And how is she connected to Erskine?"

"I am not sure," admitted Kruger.

Schmidt stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Then you must do some more investigating. See how close this girl is to our friend Herr Romanov. She may prove to be a valuable source of information." He paused. "And if nothing else…she may be used as bait."

"What of Erskine?" said Kruger.

"Do not act hastily just yet," Schmidt warned. "We do not know how close the Americans are to replicating the serum. I shall give you orders when the time comes."

"Understood, Herr Schmidt."

Schmidt leaned so close to the radio that Zola could barely hear his next words: "Hail Hydra."

"Hail Hydra," Kruger echoed, and the radio faded into silence again.


	11. XI

"How is Henry doing, dear? He must be nearly a year old by now."

Instead of answering right away, Beatrice stared down into the depths of her tea, slowly swirling the spoon around the mug. In the past twenty-four hours, she had been asked about her brother more times than she could count, from well-intentioned people who thought they were just asking a polite question. First Steve, and then while she was at the Barnes's house Winifred had pressed for more details about Henry until Bucky had finally intervened, and now Mrs. Banner. Beatrice knew that she should have taken such an occurrence into consideration when she agreed to have tea with the elderly woman, but answering somehow felt even more painful every time the question was asked.

Beatrice took a moment to plaster a smile on her face before raising her head and saying, "He's doing well. He can walk as long as someone is holding him up, and my uncle thinks he'll start talking soon."

Mrs. Banner's face broke into a wide smile, and Beatrice instantly regretted her annoyance. It was obvious that the old woman, who was estranged from her only son and never saw her grandchildren, had a great love for children and even went so far as to volunteer at the orphanage. Of course she would want to hear as much about Henry as possible. Beatrice leaned forward, as if she was about to share a secret, and said, "He's almost ten months old, but I'm sure he still remembers you."

There was obviously in no way likely, as Henry had only met Mrs. Banner several times during his life, and for very brief stretches at that. Nevertheless, Mrs. Banner looked delighted. "Oh, I don't think so, dear," she replied, but looked happier than she had been all evening.

Taking advantage of the momentary lull in the conversation, Beatrice stood up and began to collect the plates from the table. "I'll wash them," she insisted. "It's the least I can do after you invited me over for tea."

"Of course not," Mrs. Banner insisted. "You are my guest." But when she tried to stand up, her joints cracked so loudly that Beatrice cringed, and she slowly sank back into her chair. Mrs. Banner's hands had shaken so violently that several times Beatrice feared she would drop her mug. She was clearly becoming too old to properly take care of herself and the few rooms she lived in. Beatrice wondered if she should say something, but whenever she glanced at the old woman she decided against it, guessing that Mrs. Banner wouldn't take too kindly to the suggestion that she was incompetent.

For a long while, the only sounds in the kitchen were the dull clink of dishes as Beatrice washed them in the sink and Mrs. Banner's ragged breathing. She stared blankly out the window as she scrubbed away the crumbs from her plate. The park across the street was deserted, the swing swaying slightly in the wind, as a cool spring rain pelted down from the sky, leaving long streaks across the glass like tears.

When she had been invited over for tea on Sunday night, she had been hesitant to accept Mrs. Banner's offer, in case she arrived home late and overslept the next morning, but since the alternative was listening to Steve pretending he wasn't sick, she knew there was only one option that would allow her to preserve her sanity.

The layout of the rooms was as familiar to Beatrice as her own voice; though she hadn't been in her old flat since it was flooded, Mrs. Banner's was very similar, down to the placement of the appliances in the kitchen. Beatrice felt a momentary pang of longing for home—her  _old_ home. She wasn't sure when the change had happened, but at some point she had started to think of Steve's flat as home.

The sky outside darkened quickly, casting long shadows across the trees as the storm slowly moved across the city. The swings were still moving back and forth, as if someone was sitting on them, but the wind, like the rain, had died down. Feeling slightly uneasy at the eerie sight, Beatrice finally turned away from the sink and back to Mrs. Banner, who in the silence looked as if she had fallen asleep. "I think that's all of them," she said in a low voice, not wanting to startle her.

Mrs. Banner jerked upright with a loud snore, her wrinkled hands hastily reaching for her glasses. "Goodness me, I must have dozed off," she said, looking at the clock hanging above the door. "Is it seven o'clock already? We talked right through supper! And oh, you shouldn't have done all of those dishes, dear…" But her flustered tone couldn't quite hide her gratefulness.

Beatrice smiled. "It was no problem at all, Mrs. Banner. I do think I should be leaving soon, though. It's getting dark."

The old woman slowly stood up, having to clutch onto the table for support, and peered at Beatrice over her horn-rimmed glasses. "Yes, yes, of course," she replied. Beatrice suspected she was still half-asleep. "You are welcome to stay here if you wish to—walking all the way back to Flatbush isn't safe for young ladies at this time of night."

"Actually, I brought my bicycle," Beatrice said as she moved toward the front door, hoping Mrs. Banner got the hint. "Besides, I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"No trouble at all," the older woman answered as Beatrice retrieved her cardigan from the closet. "I suppose it is better if you go home in case Mr. Pryce catches you."

Beatrice tried not to betray her discomfort at the mention of her old landlord and his threat if he ever saw her again. She was taking a risk by even being on the property, she knew, let alone visiting Mrs. Banner. But she was also sure the woman wouldn't tell a soul about seeing her.

"Just out of curiosity," Beatrice began, "You wouldn't happen to know if he ever fixed my old apartment, would you?"

"Oh, that was finished months ago," Mrs. Banner replied, waving a dismissive hand. "The repairs weren't costly at all. I think he was just looking for an excuse to evict you. Your father gave him a lot of trouble, you know. Why, Elena used to tell me that John was always behind on paying the rent and often disturbed the neighbors…"

Beatrice's jaw clenched. Not wanting to hear any more, she said through gritted teeth, "Actually, I know a family who won a lawsuit against him years ago."

"I don't doubt that." Mrs. Banner suddenly lowered her voice, as if afraid someone would hear them. "Rumors have been floating around for years that he's wanted in several states. Fraud, money laundering, assault…I wouldn't be surprised if he has a bounty on his head!"

Even though Beatrice knew Pryce was a criminal, she hadn't known his crimes would be so severe as to be a wanted man. But if nobody could prove the rumors, there was no use in going to the police—besides, many of his tenants were hardly upstanding citizens themselves.

The worry must have been visible on her face, since Mrs. Banner gently touched her arm and said, "Don't fret, dear. He can't do anything even if he does see you."

Beatrice swallowed past the sudden ball of anxiety in her throat and nodded. "I hope so," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "Listen, Mrs. Banner, I just wanted to thank you again for what you did with Henry. No matter what I said before, I know now that bringing him to the orphanage was the best thing you could have done. I…I wasn't in a fit state to take care of him then."

Mrs. Banner's wizened face broke into a crinkled smile. "You're very welcome, my dear," she said.

* * *

Beatrice wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but she somehow ended up staying for another forty minutes, as Mrs. Banner remembered that she hadn't told her about a letter she had received from her son, who was living in Virginia, and decided to show her the letter so Beatrice could read it herself. By the time Beatrice was able to politely excuse herself, night had already fallen and the air was still thick with the smell of rain.

The racing clouds had completely obscured the stars overhead, and Beatrice was left with only the dim streetlights for illumination.  _Maybe I should have stayed here tonight after all,_ she thought nervously as she went into the yard where her bicycle was propped up against the brick wall. It wasn't unheard of for Pryce to be prowling the perimeter at this time of night, making sure that his tenants weren't up to anything publicly unsavory. Beatrice hoped she was covered well enough by the darkness that he wouldn't be able to spot her if he was indeed around.

She'd wheeled her bicycle to the road and was about to climb on when an ear-splitting _crack_  shattered the still air, sounding like a dozen firecrackers had gone off at once. Beatrice was so startled that she nearly dropped her bicycle, and dove back into the building, head ducked.

Growing up in Bushwick—in  _Brooklyn_ —she'd heard her fair share of gunshots, usually from warring gang members or robberies gone wrong. But those usually occurred once or twice a year, if ever, and she hadn't heard a single gunshot since moving to Flatbush.

But she had never heard one so  _close_  before. The noise was still reverberating through her eardrums—any louder and it would have been physically painful. She hadn't seen anyone else outside, and her first instinct was to run back inside to Mrs. Banner, especially if there was a risk of getting caught in the crossfire. But the door was in the very direction the shot had been fired. If someone was across the street, she would be visible to them instantly. And then she had a sudden, stupidly irrational thought: what if they had been shooting at  _her?_

Beatrice waited, trembling and pressing herself into the shadows, for what felt like hours but was in actuality probably minutes. Nobody appeared to investigate; the tenements were very much a "mind your own business" mentality. Maybe there was a small chance of someone like Mrs. Banner calling the police, but that was it. It wasn't likely they would come to Bushwick for something as simple as a single gunshot, anyway. That in itself was an odd thing; she was waiting for a volley of return fire, but none came, and soon enough the street had lapsed into silence again.

Maybe someone had accidentally pressed the trigger, Beatrice thought, trying to talk herself into moving again. She was still huddled against the side of the building, her bicycle lying abandoned on the sidewalk some twenty feet away, her arms protecting her head like her father had once instructed. If she hadn't known any better, she would have sworn that it had come from the park across the street. But if that was the case, why hadn't she heard anything? And why had she been left alone when she was an easy target?

Slowly lifting her head, Beatrice crawled on her hands and knees over to the corner block. The grass was soaking wet from the recent rain, but mud and grime were the last things on her mind. She hesitantly peered around the corner, looking for any signs of movement up and down the street, but it was perfectly still. There was a muffled shriek of laughter from inside one of the units and a light flickered on the top floor. Clearly the inhabitants weren't too bothered by it.

Beatrice let out a shaky exhale and slowly got to her feet, hoping she didn't look as disheveled as she felt. Perhaps it had been silly of her to be so cautious when there had only been one gunshot, but she had acted on pure instinct. There had been no thought to it. Maybe she just had faster reflexes than she believed.

She reached her bicycle without incident and righted it, swinging herself onto the seat as she pushed away from the sidewalk, intending to ride home without looking back. Next time, she would invite Mrs. Banner to Steve's instead.

And then a loud, gurgling gasp reached her ears from somewhere close by, and this time she really did fall off her bike. Unsteady as she was, she had just crossed the street when the front wheel of her bicycle wobbled dangerously for several seconds before Beatrice toppled off, thankfully landing in a soft cushion of grass. She let out an involuntary shriek of pain as one of the handlebars smashed onto her knee, ripping a piece of fabric right off her skirt. Frustrated tears sprang to her eyes as she pulled herself free of the bicycle, fighting the sudden urge to throw the damned thing at a tree.

There was a white lump lying in the grass by the swings, just out of the circle of light under the streetlamp. Beatrice wouldn't have noticed it from the opposite side of the road—in fact, she could barely see it now. Its proximity was the only thing that gave it away.

Wondering if it was a sheet that had escaped someone's laundry, she glanced over at it again—and her entire body gave a thrill of horror as she realized what it was. It wasn't a sheet at all, but a  _man_ —a man was lying in the grass ten feet away from her.

Beatrice stood frozen in utter disbelief, her hand clamped over her mouth so she wouldn't scream. At first she was certain he was dead, but then he gave another rattling, choking gasp, and she remembered what had caused her to fall off her bicycle in the first place. Heedless of the danger it might bring her, and acting on her reflexes once more, she ran toward him and sank to her knees.

The first thing she saw was the blood, soaking through his white shirt in an ever-growing puddle and seeping onto the grass. He was lying on his back, and there was a bullet hole on the left side of his ribcage, just above his heart. His entire body was twitching like he had been electrocuted, and his arm was scrabbling desperately at his shirt as if trying to staunch the wound but he didn't have the strength to reach it. Blood was pouring out of his mouth; he was choking on it. He was drowning in his own blood.

But that wasn't what caused Beatrice's own heart to nearly stop. Some dim part of her mind knew that she was very calm, considering the amount of blood she was confronted with—more than she had ever seen before in her life. She was staring at his face.

"Mr. Pryce?" she whispered hoarsely.

His eyes wheeled around, never focusing on her for more than a second. Of course he couldn't speak. Beatrice thought his face must be turning blue. Without thinking, and with her mind somehow working effortlessly, considering the situation, she ripped the already-torn piece of fabric right off her skirt and pressed it over the wound, trying to staunch it. "Can you turn your head?" she asked him, her voice surprisingly steady, and mentally cursed herself when he didn't—couldn't—respond. She leaned forward over him, and slowly moved his head to the side so the blood wouldn't collect in his throat.

This, somehow, was just as much second nature as ducking behind the tenement had been. Although she was working in poor light, Beatrice's hands were remarkably steady as she pressed hard on the wound, examining it closely to see if the bullet was still inside. If she ever considered that his attacker could have been hiding in the trees and watching him bleed out, ready to kill her for trying to help him, it wouldn't occur to her until much later. And Pryce was no longer a criminal landlord and all-around corrupt person who had evicted and threatened her as well as Bucky's family, but someone that Beatrice was trying to help.

Still, it was fast becoming clear that she had arrived too late—he was already bleeding out. His struggles began to grow feebler, and Beatrice began compressions on his chest, giving up her search for the bullet. There was no time for her to run back to Mrs. Banner's and call the police—all she could do was hope that someone had seen her and they were already on their way. But she knew that they wouldn't show up. If Pryce did manage to live and was admitted into hospital, they would want to know who he was—and unless he had aliases ready, he would be arrested and probably jailed. There was nothing Beatrice could do but watch him die. She hated Pryce, but seeing him jerking and twitching on the ground like a dying animal made her feel physically ill and horribly helpless, as if she was there just to watch.

And then, suddenly, it was all over. His arms went limp, and his head lolled to the side, even more blood spilling out of his mouth and nose. Beatrice could no longer feel his heart beneath her hands. She froze for the briefest second before beginning to press down hard on his chest anew, as if she could somehow force his heart into beating again. But she knew she was trying to reanimate a corpse.

He was dead.

Beatrice's hands and arms were slick with blood; her clothes were wet with it. As she stared down at Pryce, her adrenaline and panic came rushing back, and her arms began to shake. Suddenly she couldn't seem to get enough air in her lungs. Her mind was spinning crazily. She needed to get out of there lest someone saw her and thought that she had murdered him. But she couldn't just leave him lying there, either.

Nausea rose up in Beatrice's throat, but she forced it back down, telling herself that she wouldn't vomit.  _This was what you wanted,_ a nasty voice in the back of her mind kept repeating over and over.  _If you were a nurse, you would have to deal with this every day._

There had been no blood when she discovered her father's body, but at least then Beatrice had the sense to go running for help. Now she was in shock, tremors ripping through her body. She wasn't sure why she was shaking now and not when she had first discovered him.

Through the haze of fear that clouded her mind, she was only thinking of one person—whether for help or comfort, she didn't know. "Bucky," she breathed, her mouth unconsciously forming the words. He knew Pryce—he could help her—

She was on her feet and running to her bicycle before she knew what she was doing, unable to look back at Pryce. Her hands were slippery on the handlebars and she could feel blood running in rivulets down her arms, but she forced herself to ignore it and continued on, pedaling as fast as she could.

Looking back on it afterward, Beatrice could barely remember her frantic ride to the Barnes's house—it was all a blur of wet streets, slick with rain, her bloodied hands gripping the handlebars so hard her knuckles were white, and pedaling until her muscles began to feel numb with pain. Brooklyn Heights was slightly closer to Bushwick than Flatbush was, and Beatrice made it to the brownstone in record time—she guessed that it had taken her just over twenty minutes. The streets were nearly empty, the bright headlights of a passing car momentarily blinding her before fading away again. Even the streetcars weren't running.

Beatrice could have cried in relief when the familiar house came into view, looming up in front of her. No lights shone from behind any of the windows, and she vaguely wondered how late it was. She silently rode up to the front stoop, clambering ungracefully off her bicycle and leaving it by the steps. It was only when she raised her hand to knock on the door that she realized they were probably all asleep. It hadn't been that early when she'd left Mrs. Banner's, had it? Beatrice couldn't remember.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the window, illuminated by the light above the door, and cringed at how disheveled she looked, as if  _she_ had been the one who was killed only to come back to life again. Her hair was plastered against her back, the pins having fallen out long ago. Blood streaked her hands and spotted her clothes—the piece that had torn falling off the bike left a rip all the way up her thigh, exposing her stockings. George likely wouldn't even let her in the house if he saw her now.

But Beatrice was desperate, and seeing no other possible options, she quietly knocked on the door.

Nothing stirred from within; no lights flickered on. Maybe nobody answering was even worse than them seeing her in such a state. After a minute passed with no response, Beatrice knocked again, louder, and then a third time, to no avail. No one was coming.

Her inconvenient habit of crying in hopeless situations unfortunately hadn't abated, and she found herself angrily fighting back tears as she turned away from the door. Damn it, there had to be  _something_ she could do—go back to Mrs. Banner's, maybe, or even swallow her pride and wake up Steve—

But then her eyes caught on something she hadn't noticed before: the rose trellis winding up the side of the house, all the way to Bucky's window. If she squinted hard enough, she could swear that his window was cracked open.

Beatrice's logical side was already screaming at her not to do it—it was dangerous, and the height of stupidity, and probably the kind of thing that Steve would do. The thorns alone could rip the skin right off her arms, never mind the injuries she would sustain if she fell. But she had to get to Bucky somehow—he was the only one she knew who had also been acquainted with Pryce. He would know what to do. And she hadn't bicycled halfway across Brooklyn in the dead of night for nothing.

Gritting her teeth, Beatrice stepped off the stoop and crossed the property to where the trellis began. She silently thanked Winifred for being such an avid gardener and planting the structure in the first place as she grabbed hold of the wood and hoisted herself up, biting back a gasp of pain when a thorn scraped her leg. She was already covered in blood—what did a bit more matter, anyway? Even if it was her own this time.

The spaces between the panels were just large enough for her hands and feet to hook on, and though every so often she would put her palm right on the tip of a thorn, sending a shooting pain throughout her hand, it was easier than Beatrice had thought. She concentrated on taking one step at a time, becoming careful to feel for thorns after she'd been stabbed for the fourth time and suddenly grateful for the dark so she couldn't see how high up she was. The trellis was sturdy and supported her weight, although it did wobble slightly if she was climbing too fast. Beatrice would freeze and clutch onto it for dear life whenever that happened, sure that she was about to see her life flashing before her eyes.

And then suddenly she reached up and felt the cool surface of glass rather than the rough wooden trellis. She had made it. Beatrice hardly dared to breathe as she leaned forward and ran her hand across the window until she came to the bottom edge.

"Bucky?" she whispered into the room, not expecting an answer. If George or Winifred opened the front door now and saw her hanging from their son's window, she was in for it.

She tried to remember the layout of the bedroom as she gently pried open the window as far as it would go. It would be tight, but Beatrice guessed she would just be able to fit through. She'd never believed that one day being short would actually come in handy.

Slowly, carefully, she swung her leg inside the window so that she was balancing precariously between the house and the trellis. Bucky's bed was right beneath the window—she could hear his deep, even breathing below her—and if she positioned herself just right she would land on the bed beside him. Beatrice inched forward—and then her hand slipped on the glass, wet with rain, and the trellis wobbled dangerously underneath her, threatening to send her toppling to the ground. Instinctively she yanked her foot free and pulled herself through the window, her feet scrabbling for purchase against the brick for a heart-stopping second before she toppled inside.

In her haste, she had forgotten about her landing, and she fell, hard, directly onto Bucky, the impact knocking the wind out of her. Beatrice's chin slammed onto his chest, and her teeth crashed together painfully.

He gave a startled yelp that would have been endearing in any other situation and jolted upright, his hand flying for the lamp on the bedside table. Beatrice clapped a hand over his mouth before he could make a noise as light flooded the room.

Bucky's eyes were wide, his breathing heavy, as if she had just woken him from a dream—she knew she was lucky that he hadn't tried to attack her—and his hair was mussed from sleep. His lips opened slightly in shock. "Rosie?" she felt him whisper against her palm.

"Shhhh," she begged. When he nodded, she cautiously raised her hand from his mouth, her eyes wide. They were in a very compromising position: Beatrice's legs on either side of Bucky's hips, having grabbed on to him in any way she could so she wouldn't fall off the bed—her hair brushing his face—his knee was digging into her thigh—but neither of them moved. Beatrice because she was afraid she would fall, and Bucky looked as if he still wasn't quite awake. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he gazed up at her. "Is it really you?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes," Beatrice said in a low voice. She watched him warily as he blinked rapidly, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes. He sat up straighter, and she could pinpoint the exact moment he noticed the state of her clothes and the blood on her hands. His eyes snapped back up to hers, startled. "Is that yours?" he asked urgently.

"It's not, don't worry," she quickly assured him. Bucky leaned forward to take her arm, turning it over so he could see the extent of it. He swore under his breath. "It's not—it's not mine," Beatrice explained, trying and failing to ignore the way tingles shot up her arm at his touch. Almost every part of her body was touching him, and her exhausted brain scrambled to process every bit of information she could. "That's why I'm here. I need your help."

Beatrice moved so that his knee was no longer pressing into her side, before, with a jolt, she realized that it wasn't his knee at all. Mortified, she quickly scrambled off of him and swung her legs off the side of the bed. She wasn't sure where she should look, and her face grew so hot she was sure someone could fry an egg on it. What was she supposed to do in this type of situation? Pretend she hadn't noticed? She stared fixedly at his chemistry set, bathed in the dim lamplight, before turning back around to him. Bucky looked confused at her sudden escape, but Beatrice saw the puzzlement in his eyes slowly dawn into realization. To her astonishment, he turned as red as her and cleared his throat, pulling his legs up to his chest and pretending to adjust the blanket. There was an awkward pause as both of them struggled whether or not to address the situation before Bucky rubbed the back of his neck and bit his lip slightly. "How did you get inside?" he asked. His voice was rough.

"Through the window," Beatrice admitted. "And, um, up the rose trellis."

Bucky's eyes widened and he turned his upper body toward her, still keeping his legs crossed. Beatrice tried very hard to keep her gaze strictly on his face.  _"What?"_ he choked.

"Yes. Well, I thought that you may have done it before. Or girls have, I don't know, but—"

"Rosie," Bucky gasped. It sounded like halfway between a laugh and a sob. Beatrice hoped that was a good thing; he was so much more expressive when he wasn't fully conscious. Part of her wanted to replay the conversation; analyze his expression and every word he was saying, but she couldn't afford to lose focus. She had already lost enough time as it was. "No one has done that before."

Beatrice blinked. "Ever?"

Bucky shook his head slowly from side to side. She involuntarily thought back to the time when he had called her a miracle, right after he told her that she was the only one who could  _see_ both him and Steve. That meant something—Beatrice knew it did—but then she remembered Pryce, bleeding out in the park across from her old tenement. A sudden wave of nauseated dizziness swept her, and she had to grip onto the bedpost to stay upright. Bucky's bedroom drifted in and out of focus, and she saw him stand up and hurry over to her in her peripheral vision. "Rosie?" he asked, his voice close to her ear. "What's wrong?" He sounded worried. Beatrice stared blankly at her feet, willing herself not to vomit.

"It's Pryce," she rasped. "He's dead. Dead. I saw him die. He was shot—in Bushwick—you're the only one who can help—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Bucky said urgently. "Pryce was shot? By who?"

"I don't know," Beatrice answered, shaking her head furiously. The dizziness was beginning to fade, but the nausea still remained. "I heard the gunshot but didn't see anyone—oh, I'm getting blood all over your floor…" As she'd shaken her head, droplets of blood had come loose from her hair and dripped onto the floor at her feet.

But Bucky didn't seem to care; he stood stock-still for a second, just staring at her, and then snapped out of it, grabbing a set of keys from his desk. "Come on," he muttered, taking Beatrice by the wrist and leading her from the room. She didn't try to resist. "We're going to Bushwick."

* * *

The house was in near-total darkness, the only light shining through from cracks in the curtains that let in minuscule amounts of moonlight from outside. Beatrice didn't let go of Bucky's wrist as he led her downstairs and to the front entryway, gripping on to him as if he was an anchor. She was terrified that she would fall apart if she let go. She could feel the adrenaline racing through her body, left over from the frantic bicycle ride and her subsequent climb up the rose trellis. Later she knew she would feel the cuts and bruises where she had scraped herself countless times on the thorns, but she couldn't feel anything now except for a heightened sense of awareness, starting at every creak and groan of the house. When Rebecca's cat, Smokey, lightly leapt in front of their path, his shadow looming on the wall, Beatrice almost squeaked aloud.

"Get out of here," Bucky hissed at him, nudging the animal with his foot, but Smokey refused to move. His eyes glittered as he stared up at them, his tail swishing back and forth, and he meowed so loudly Beatrice was sure it would wake up the neighbors.

A door creaked open from upstairs, and Beatrice heard Winifred call, "James, is that you?"

Bucky threw a glance back at her and tightened his grip on Beatrice's wrist. "Damn it," he muttered. "She's going to hear the car." But he must have seen the look on Beatrice's face, since he inclined his head toward the front door. "We need to hurry."

She didn't need telling twice; Bucky wrenched open the front door and they leapt off the stoop and sprinted to the car. Beatrice and Bucky both dove inside just as the door opened again and Winifred leaned outside, her hair in rollers and wearing a dressing-gown. The car roared to life and sped down the street, while Beatrice gripped the seat as hard as she could. Her last glimpse was of Winifred running across the garden, trying to stop the car, but there was no way she would be able to catch up with them.

As soon as they rounded a corner and pulled onto the main street, Bucky began to laugh, turning to her with eyes full of amusement. "Dad is gonna kill me after this," he said cheerfully. "I probably won't be able to drive for a month."

Beatrice was horrified. "This is all my fault," she exclaimed. "Bucky, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"Naw, don't worry about it, doll," he shrugged. "I've done this before. They'd be even angrier if it was Becca. Besides, I can hardly refuse a girl who climbed through my window, can I?"

 _Only because no one answered the door,_ she thought, but didn't voice it aloud.

He grinned in an attempt to cheer her up, but when Beatrice didn't reply, he sighed and turned his eyes back to the road. "You needed my help," Bucky said. "Anything for you, Rosie."

Her cheeks warmed despite herself, and she stared at him, still disheveled in his clothes from the day before. Beatrice thanked her lucky stars that he hadn't gotten undressed before bed—then again, she didn't suppose that there was any other possible way events could have unfolded in a less mortifying manner.

"The blood is his, right?" Bucky asked suddenly, startling Beatrice out of her thoughts. "Pryce's?"

Beatrice nodded. "I…I tried to save him but I was too late."

Bucky's eyes traveled down the length of her body, stopping at the tear in her skirt. "And I don't suppose you left any evidence with you," he said grimly.

It took Beatrice a moment to realize what he meant, and her heart skipped a painful beat. "You mean that if anyone has found him, they'll think I did it?" she asked, beginning to hyperventilate. "But Mrs. Banner is the only one who saw me tonight—she knows I'm innocent—"

Bucky reached over and put his hand on her arm, the warmth of it spreading through her chilled skin. "Breathe, Rosie," he said. "There's no way it'll be traced back to you."

She ignored his empty words. "What if someone sees us now?" she asked.

Bucky's mouth hardened into a thin line. Beatrice searched his face for an answer and when she found none, she slowly turned her head back to her own window so as not to set off the dizziness again and leaned her forward against the glass, unable to close her eyes even for a second.

They didn't speak for the remainder of the trip, the atmosphere suddenly heavy between them. As soon as Bucky stopped the car, Beatrice was out and running across the street to the park—to her utter relief, everything was still dark and quiet, exactly as she had left it. She knew Bucky was following her, but she still flinched when she heard his footsteps behind her.

The pool of blood surrounding Pryce had only widened during her absence, and the grass was wet and sticky. She drew away the piece of fabric from her skirt where she had wrapped it around him, and this time a clear liquid gushed from the wound—pus, Beatrice assumed. Pryce's dead eyes stared blankly up at them, stained with red. There was just so much  _blood._ Beatrice had never imagined a bullet could be so messy.

Bucky gave a sharp intake of breath behind her, and she twisted around to see him staring down at the corpse, his eyes uncharacteristically wide. His face whitened, and Beatrice wondered if this was his first time seeing a dead body. "And you found him like this," he said in a hushed voice, as if Pryce could possibly hear him.

"Yes," Beatrice admitted. "Well, he was still alive at first."

Bucky looked as if he was about to be sick. He slowly crouched down next to her and swore under his breath. He looked as nauseous as Beatrice felt, and then reached out a shaking hand to close Pryce's eyes. "I hated the bastard, but he didn't deserve to die like this," he muttered.

Beatrice's head was beginning to spin again; she inhaled deeply to calm herself down and just as quickly began to choke on the sickly sweet stench of the body; it smelled like rotting meat. She turned her head away and tried to take great breaths of fresh air, but she couldn't get enough oxygen in her lungs. Her eyes began to water.

"Rosie, are you all right?" Bucky asked, but his voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel. Beatrice couldn't do anything but gasp in response. She clenched handfuls of grass in her fists, trying to control the shaking in her arms as her heart pounded madly.

She felt Bucky take her by the shoulders and turn her around gently to face him. His features were swimming in and out of focus. "Beatrice, Beatrice, look at me," he was saying, his voice a low murmur. "You need to breathe."

But her shallow gasps were coming uncontrollably, and she was forced to ride on wave after wave of the panic that had finally broken. Somewhere past the haze that had clouded her brain, she was aware of Bucky gently pulling her up to a standing position and saying, "Come on, doll. Let's get you out of here." Her legs felt so weak that she had to lean heavily on Bucky for support as he led her back to the car, one arm looped around her back so that she couldn't fall over. They hadn't been this close physically since their brief dance months ago, but the thought barely registered in Beatrice's mind, let alone allowed her to enjoy it.

They were only halfway to the car when Bucky suddenly stopped, looking at something over her head. Beatrice tried to turn her head too and saw a familiar figure with white hair and pink slippers hurrying across the street towards them.  _Mrs. Banner,_ she thought, but her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn't speak.

The old woman stopped in front of her and Bucky; Beatrice could barely hear their conversation past the roaring in her ears. She caught the words "telephone", "police", "Pryce", "panicking", and her own name. The voices didn't sound accusatory, though, so she allowed herself a tiny measure of relief that Mrs. Banner didn't think she had anything to do with the murder. She was suddenly anxious to get back in the car and to somewhere safe; what if the shooter was still nearby?

Beatrice didn't try to protest as Bucky opened the car door for her and helped her onto the seat. Her uncontrollable shivering was even more noticeable in the cool interior, and she slid over to Bucky when he got inside, wanting the comfort he brought her. She rested her head on his shoulder as he started the engine and then looped his free arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. They must have looked like they were on a date, or going steady, but Beatrice didn't care.

For most of the ride back, he tried to get her to speak, but Beatrice only offered one-word answers when her shaking would cease enough to allow her to respond. "It'll be all right," he kept saying—sometimes his words were mixed with "doll", "sweetheart" or "sugar", but Beatrice guessed he was only trying to get a reaction out of her; riling her up to the point where she would snap at him to stop calling her pet names. As it was, however, the panic was so overwhelming to the point where her perception of the rest of the world was nearly nonexistent. All she could think about was the overpowering fear, drowning out everything else, and the image of Pryce's lifeless eyes staring up at her, blood pouring out of his mouth and nose…

Beatrice drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, unable to stop herself from whimpering. Bucky pulled her tighter against his side, and she turned her forehead against his shirt. "W—what if the police think I killed him?" she whispered, her voice muffled, but he appeared to hear her all the same.

"They won't," he said firmly as the car came to an abrupt stop. "Mrs. Banner can attest to that. So will I, if it comes to it. Besides, they're not gonna believe that a girl like you could take down a guy like Pryce. No offense," Bucky added as Beatrice raised her head. The side of his mouth twitched upward the tiniest bit.

She managed to take a shuddering breath—the deepest she had since the attack had started—and noticed they were back at the Barnes's house. The lights were still on, and her bicycle was propped up by the front door, though Beatrice hadn't left it in that position.

"Can you walk?" Bucky asked her. Beatrice considered that: her legs didn't feel like they had been turned to liquid anymore, but the dizziness still hadn't abated. Bucky sensed her hesitation and said, "Guess not." He opened the car door and climbed out, turning back to meet her eyes. "Do you trust me?" he murmured.

She nodded without having to think about it, and Bucky reached back inside the car, keeping one hand on her back while the other slid under her knees. He carefully lifted Beatrice out of the car as if it was something he did every day. She gaped up at him, amazed that she still had the strength left to do so. The panic was slowly beginning to ebb away now that they were far away from Bushwick, replaced by an exhaustion that was just as overwhelming in its own right.

Bucky kicked the car door shut with his foot and carried her up to the front steps, gently pushing the door open with his shoulder. His right arm was firmly around her back, supporting her, while the left was still tucked under her knees. Beatrice's arms had somehow looped around his neck during the journey from the car to the house, and she marveled at what an absolutely surreal evening it had been.

"You called me Beatrice," she said to him, watching his face carefully. She was proud of the way her voice didn't waver this time. "Earlier tonight."

Bucky glanced down at her, a wary expression on his face. "Yeah," he admitted slowly. "I thought you hated it when I called you Rosie."

Beatrice almost smiled. "Well, it's grown on me."

"James Buchanan Barnes!" she heard Winifred snap as they began to climb the stairs. "Where on  _earth_ have you—is that Beatrice? Is she all right?" Beatrice couldn't help but feel gratified at the way his mother's anger immediately turned to worry when she saw her.

"I'll explain everything in a second," Bucky said in a long-suffering voice. "She just needs to rest."

Winifred stared in horror at Beatrice as they passed her. "Her clothes are ruined. I'll bring her some of Rebecca's and get the guest bedroom ready," she offered, immediately springing into action.

"She's fine here, Ma," Bucky called back to Winifred. Beatrice wasn't sure where he was taking her—the lights in the room were off—and she was reluctant to let go of him, but as soon as she was lowered onto a bed and felt a blanket being pulled over her, she was powerless to resist it. The panic had sucked all of the energy and adrenaline right out of her, and her head had barely landed on the pillow before she fell into darkness.

* * *

When Beatrice awoke, the first thing she saw was an open window, curtains fluttering gently in the breeze. Disoriented, she sat up to a bedroom that was definitely not her own—posters on the walls, a chemistry set stuffed hastily under a cluttered desk—and the previous night came rushing back to her in a flood of memories. Pryce's death, scaling the rose trellis, having a panic attack, and Bucky carrying her from the car. Beatrice waited a moment to see if the panic would return, but when her breathing stayed even and her heart rate didn't spike, she allowed herself to groan and nearly flopped back onto the pillows. She was in Bucky's bedroom—she had slept in Bucky's  _bed_ , which smelled of cologne and mint and a scent that was faintly but unmistakably Bucky himself—and she would have to explain everything to George and Winifred, not to mention Steve.

God,  _that_  was going to be fun.

There was an unfamiliar set of clothes on the bed—Beatrice assumed they were Rebecca's. She slowly sat up and tested out all her muscles to make sure they were still in working order before standing up and quickly changing into the new skirt and blouse Winifred must have laid out for her. Rebecca was several inches taller than her—the sleeves on the blouse were too long and the knee-length skirt was more like an ankle-length skirt on her—but it was certainly a huge improvement from her bloodsoaked outfit.

The upper corridor was empty apart from Smokey when she emerged out of Bucky's room and hesitantly peered over the banister downstairs. The door to the sitting-room was open, and she could hear voices emanating from it. Beatrice paused before tentatively walking down the stairs—the very first step creaked loudly and she froze when the hushed voices ceased—and when she nervously poked her head into the sitting-room, looking for Bucky, she found not only him, but George, Winifred, and Steve waiting for her.

"Beatrice!" Steve was the first to greet her, standing up from the armchair next to Bucky. His blue eyes were full of concern. "Are you all right? Bucky told me what happened."

"I'm fine," Beatrice said, crossing her arms uncomfortably with the weight of four gazes on her. "I slept well. Your bed is, um, very comfortable," she said to Bucky, who looked sheepish but quickly covered it up with a grin.

"Are you sure you're feeling all right?" George asked her. "When James explained the situation, we were all understandably concerned. I was told that a police officer might be stopping by later this morning to ask you some questions. Don't worry," he said at Beatrice's sudden startled expression. "Nobody is blaming you for Pryce's death. He had a lot of enemies, it seems."

"Yes," said Beatrice softly. She stared down at her hands. "I guess he did."

"We're staying with her when the officer comes," Bucky said fiercely, and Steve nodded firmly in agreement. Beatrice glanced up at them, surprised and touched, but then her eyes landed on the grandfather clock ticking away behind Winifred, and her heart went still in her chest.

It was eight-thirty, and Ivan's ship would have already left. She was too late.

She had missed her chance to say goodbye to Henry.


	12. XII

Beatrice's mother used to have a saying: that strings of bad luck always occurred in threes. So far, Beatrice herself hadn't seen any reason to doubt Elena. Her prediction was turning out to be eerily correct, from Ivan and Henry's abrupt departure to Pryce's gruesome death. Both events had happened within quick succession of each other; Beatrice feared that the third incident would be the worst of all.

True to George's word, a bored-looking police officer showed up at the Barnes's house not long after Beatrice had woken up. She'd answered his questions about what she had witnessed that night truthfully, and he'd seemed to believe her. The next day a short article was written up in the newspaper about a "likely mob-related shooting in Bushwick" and no more had been said about the matter. Like Beatrice, George and Winifred hadn't wished for Pryce to die in such a horrible way, but while Bucky and his parents were content to write it off as one of Pryce's enemies exacting revenge, Beatrice wasn't so sure. If that was the case, wouldn't his killer want to stay around to make sure he was really dead? But Beatrice could think of no other possible explanation for Pryce's death, and so accepted the official explanation.

After the officer had left and Winifred insisted on making sure she had a good breakfast and wasn't too shaken, Beatrice headed out to Queens and the address Erskine had given her. The scientist had eventually answered the door, looking as if he had been in the middle of some sort of experiment, and Beatrice told him about missing her chance to say goodbye to Henry. Erskine had invited her inside for coffee, and explained that there was no way he could contact Ivan until their ship reached Europe, but that he would send her uncle a message with Beatrice's explanation as soon as he received word of their safe arrival.

She had left Erskine's house feeling slightly better than before, though regret for not waking earlier still ate at her. She had gone to the harbor and stared glumly out at sea for a very long time, watching the ships come in and out of port until her heart hurt too much to continue. It wouldn't be any less painful if she had gotten to say goodbye to them, she knew, but at least she would have had a chance to see Henry one last time.

The week dragged on at its usual sluggish pace, and Beatrice couldn't find it in her to tell Angie about what she'd seen and why she hadn't gone to work on Monday. For one thing, she wasn't sure if she wanted to relive the memory. She also didn't want to make the other girl feel uncomfortable, since Angie was so optimistic and light-hearted, and Beatrice didn't want to risk having another panic attack where Mrs. Reynolds could see. Bucky and Steve, she noticed, were both being more cautious around her; both of them careful not to mention Pryce when she was in earshot, but she knew they were having long discussions when she wasn't present. Steve, especially, couldn't hide his guilty expression when she asked him about it, although he had half-heartedly tried to lie.

But Beatrice couldn't be upset that the boys were talking behind her back. She tried to keep Pryce out of her conscious mind, as whenever she recalled her last sight of him her hands began to tremble and she had to take a moment to compose herself. The smallest things would trigger the memory, like a dark stain upon the sidewalk or even walking past a park, and she wouldn't be able to get the stark images out of her head for the rest of the day. She dreamed, too, of blood and lifeless eyes—not just of Pryce but of her father sprawled upon the couch, a bottle lying on its side inches from his limp hands and liquor spilling out onto the floor; of her mother as she had presumably looked lying on the narrow hospital bed in a pool of blood. Something about seeing death again had triggered the nightmares she hadn't experienced for months, not since shortly after she'd moved into Steve's apartment, and she felt as if she was on a boat that had been cast adrift in stormy waters. And now that Henry was gone…well, Beatrice had no idea where she would be if she didn't have Steve and Bucky. Steve was an indescribable comfort even when he didn't intend to be. When she woke up gasping after a nightmare, drenched in sweat, the realization that she wasn't alone calmed her down. Sometimes he would even still be awake, hunched over his sketchbook in the parlor with a candle still flickering. Beatrice would gently settle a blanket around his shoulders and curl up into the chair opposite him, listening to his deep, if rattling, breaths and allowing herself to fall asleep again. Neither of them ever mentioned it the next morning.

He had tried to awkwardly broach the topic with her a few times—asking her how she was feeling or if she was all right—and always seemed relieved when she told him she was fine, as if he himself wasn't equipped to offer any sort of helpful advice. And she  _was_ fine, mostly. She felt better when she was talking about anything other than what had happened on the weekend.

During the times she'd encountered him briefly throughout the week, Bucky had thankfully never brought up her climbing through his bedroom window, her breakdown, or him carrying her up to his room. Beatrice had burst out, once, unable to contain herself, "I just feel so  _guilty!_ If I'd gotten there sooner—"

He hadn't needed any clarification as to what she was talking about. He had glanced up from where he was setting up a chess game (Steve was in the kitchen) and looked her squarely in the eyes, his own expression as serious as Beatrice had ever seen it. "There was nothing you could have done, Rosie."

She'd opened her mouth and closed it uselessly several times like a fish, floundering for a response, but she knew that protesting the opposite would get her nowhere. Surely there  _had_ to have been something she could have done. Even without the proper training, she could have at least kept Pryce alive. If she had gone straight back to Mrs. Banner when she'd first seen him instead of staring uselessly at the body, help could have arrived sooner. But instead she'd gone to  _Bucky._

Beatrice often found herself thinking about his reaction when she had dropped in on him—literally—in the middle of the night. He hadn't seemed angry or upset in the least, aside from being startled when he'd woken up. He hadn't complained about being dragged all the way to Bushwick, and he had obviously cared enough to carry her when she was uncertain that she would be able to walk. Beatrice wanted to cringe at her behavior that night—he must think of her as a child, unable to deal with situations on her own. He hadn't asked her why she had gone to  _him_ , of all people, and Beatrice hoped he never would: she didn't think she would ever be able to tell him the truth. And the truth was that she thought she was falling in love with him—if she hadn't done so already—and it terrified her more than anything else ever had.

She couldn't even daydream about him reciprocating her feelings. Boys like Bucky Barnes—intelligent, attractive, popular boys who had the world at their feet—didn't fall in love with poor, mousy, uninteresting girls like her. No, he would in all likelihood end up with Connie, if not someone like her. Beatrice didn't begrudge Bucky his happiness, but the intensity of the feelings overwhelmed her. She wasn't prepared to deal with them at all, so she pushed them aside—or at least tried to. For her own sanity, she forced herself to believe that it had actually been Bucky's knee she'd accidentally brushed up against in his bed. Or perhaps in the haze that existed between dreaming and awakening, he had thought that she was Connie and his body had reacted accordingly. The notion always gave Beatrice a nauseous tightening in the pit of her stomach, but she lacked the courage to confront it head-on. Still, whenever her control slipped—usually when she was falling asleep and her defenses were weakened—she replayed the moment over and over in her head.

On the dark, foggy Sunday one week after Pryce's death, Beatrice woke with a shudder, unable for a moment to recognize where she was: in the dream, she had been in her old flat, in her old bedroom, where her mother had been scolding her for not taking care of Henry, for giving him right into the hands of her estranged brother. For how  _did_ Beatrice know that Ivan was telling the truth about his relationship with Elena? Could everything he told her have been a lie?

She sat up, the blankets sliding down her legs, and wiped away the sweat from her forehead. She swore she could still see a phantom image of Elena standing at the foot of the bed, covered from head to toe in blood. Where her eyes should have been there were only two empty, black sockets.

Trembling, Beatrice shied away from the gruesome vision and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, draining it in one gulp. There had to be  _something_  she could do about the nightmares. She could guard her mind well enough when she was awake, but sleep was a different story.

There would be no more of it for her that day, Beatrice knew. It was just after six o'clock and the sky outside was still dark. Her ears perked up when she heard Steve's footsteps outside; he was an early riser too, but some days he was more talkative than others.

Trying to shove the dream out of her head, Beatrice climbed out of bed and changed into a scratchy wool sweater and a knee-length checkered skirt, her usual outfit on her days off. She had never been embarrassed about only owning two or three good sets of clothes until she saw how well-dressed Bucky always was. Steve had told her that she could wear Sarah's clothes if she wanted, but not only did Beatrice not want to wear the outfits of a dead woman, she felt as if she was intruding even more on his already unrepayable hospitality towards her.

To her surprise, Steve was already pulling on his jacket when she emerged from her room. He turned around almost sheepishly at her approach. "Beatrice," he said by way of greeting. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"No, I was already awake," Beatrice replied shortly. "Nightmare."

Steve paused in the act of rolling up his sleeves, his blue eyes suddenly uncertain. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment.

"Don't be," Beatrice said with a lopsided grin. "It's not your fault." She eyed his guilty form. "Where are you going?"

"To the place I always go on Sunday mornings," he admitted.

Beatrice blinked. "I…I didn't know you went anywhere," she said, hoping she didn't sound accusing. She didn't know why she felt so betrayed. It wasn't any of her business where Steve went, anyway.

She saw the ghost of a smile on his face. It was rare that Steve truly smiled, but her heart swelled at even the promise of it. "You've always been asleep," he told her. "I like to go early. You can come along if you want—it's not far."

"Are you sure?" Beatrice asked. "I—I mean, I would love to, but if you're not comfortable…"

"I don't mind," Steve reassured her. He paused. "Actually, I think you'd understand."

That sparked her curiosity more than anything he'd said yet, and Steve must have seen the eagerness in his eyes, for he nodded his head toward the door. "Come on," he said, and slipped outside.

Beatrice barely had time to slip her feet into penny loafers as she went out the door. Usually she would comb and style her hair before leaving the flat, but she didn't want to hold Steve up. Somehow, though, she found that she didn't really care what she looked like.

Steve was waiting for her on the balcony; Beatrice followed him down the steps and onto the street below. The fog was so thick that she couldn't see cars or pedestrians until they loomed up in front of them before being just as quickly swallowed up again. Beatrice tilted her head up and tried to see past the gray cloud that enveloped the entire neighborhood; likely the entire borough and maybe even the entire city as well. She wondered what New York looked like from above.

"If it helps, I get those too," Steve said abruptly. Beatrice slowly lowered her head and looked questioningly over at him. Unlike her, he was staring fixedly down at the ground. "Nightmares."

Now she was at a loss for what to say. "About what?" she asked before she fully considered the implications of the question.

Steve shrugged, the movement barely discernible in his oversized jacket. "A lot of things. My mom. Being kicked out because I can't pay the rent. Bucky going off to fight when I can't go with him. My health." He took a deep breath, the squaring of his shoulders making Beatrice think he was preparing for something. "They—the doctors—say it'll be a miracle if I live past thirty." He spoke evenly, but now his entire head was turned away from her.

All the breath felt like it had been knocked out of Beatrice. It was clear that Steve was not at all in optimal health, but  _thirty?_ "I don't think that's true," she said, stupidly, as if her opinion was worth more than that of multiple doctors. "I mean, there must be some sort of medication you can take."

Steve let out a short bark of laughter. His voice was more self-deprecating than she had ever heard it. "Can't afford any of it. Besides, I have so many problems they're taking bets on what'll kill me first."

Beatrice was unable to speak. Luckily, she didn't need to, as Steve, who was usually wound up tighter than a clock, continued talking as if he had needed to say the words for a while."When I was born, they said I wasn't gonna live more than a week. But my ma said that I was as stubborn as a mule."

"She wasn't wrong," Beatrice said, finally finding her voice again.

Steve glanced over at her, some layer of amusement in his eyes before it flickered away. "You sound like Bucky," he muttered. "Listen, I want to marry a nice gal someday. I want a couple of kids, a nice house, the whole bit. Prove  _them_ wrong. But that's not gonna happen. So I figured I could enlist and at least then I'd be able to fight. But I can't even do that."

"But you're still…still young—what are you, twenty-four? I mean…you still have time…the doctors could be wrong again." Beatrice finally began to understand why he was so keen to fight, to make his life count for something even if it ended earlier, because it was going to end early anyway.

"Yeah, I guess. Well, my luck's gotta run out sometime, right?" he said darkly, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. The gesture was as obvious as if he had closed a door: he had said all he wanted to say. He didn't want pity—hers or anyone's. And really, what  _could_ Beatrice say? That the doctors were wrong? That he would miraculously be cured of all his ailments in the blink of an eye? She swallowed and looked away, hating his matter-of-fact manner. It was only then that she took proper notice of their surroundings: they were crossing Church Avenue; Beatrice could see the orphanage and the Brooklyn Mission on the opposite side of the street. Further up ahead, she could see the alleyway where he had found her on that snowy morning. Some nasty part of her wondered if he wouldn't have been better off just leaving her there.

"Is this…wherever you're taking me, is it where you were going when you found me?" she asked to keep her mind off the suddenly vicious thoughts.

Steve nodded, turning back to her again: there was nothing in his posture or his voice to indicate that he was in any way bothered by their previous conversation. "Yes," he replied. "Actually, it's farther away than I made it sound. I just wanted you to come with me." The tips of his ears turned pink; Beatrice wanted to tell him just how endearing he was.

They walked in companionable silence for another ten minutes, by Beatrice's estimation, before she noticed Steve's steps begin to quicken. Thankfully he wasn't that much taller than her, so she was able to match him stride for stride. Her curiosity only grew as he beckoned her down a side street and through a small but pleasant park where several small children were happily running about—Beatrice couldn't help but remember being five years old again and the wide, earnest look on Steve's face as he shyly offered her his candy, two of his front teeth missing; little did they know their paths would cross again for good decades later—and up a grassy hill. "Here it is," Steve said, and Beatrice was admittedly not as shocked as she should have been when she realized they were standing at the magnificent arched gate to Green-Wood Cemetery. Stone angels stared blindly down at them. Beatrice felt her heart constrict painfully; the last time she had been here, she was burying her father. She had used nearly her entire life savings to afford to pay for Elena and John's tombstones, but had since avoided the place like the plague. Now she felt like a coward, especially in front of Steve, who clearly visited the place as often as he could.

Shifting from side to side nervously, hoping that Steve couldn't read her guilt, she quickly changed the subject. "Does Bucky know about this?" she ventured.

Steve nodded. "Yeah. He…he comes along with me sometimes. I don't think he enjoys it, but he still does." He gave a tiny shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smile. "I don't know what I'd do without Bucky."

For her part, Beatrice didn't know, either.

* * *

The twisting, labyrinthine roads that crossed the cemetery were completely deserted, and the fog shrouded the gravestones in an eerie haze. But as they wound deeper and deeper into the heart of the graveyard, Beatrice noticed the fog begin to lift. She no longer felt as if she was completely surrounded by mist, the only inhabitant of a dark world, and when they reached the crest of another hill she could even see the Statue of Liberty, a tiny green dot in the distance. An enormous boat drifted slowly down the East River; they weren't so far from the Navy Yard now.

Walking next to Steve, her feet crunching on the gravel and the pleasant sound of church bells pealing from somewhere close by, it was difficult not to feel at peace. The war, which had been an omnipresent shadow hanging like a dark cloud over the city for the past two years, now seemed like a distant dream. In fact, Beatrice found it difficult to believe there  _was_ a war being fought at all, not when birds chirped and flew around her, not when New York felt as quiet as she would ever be.

"It's a beautiful view," Beatrice murmured, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear as a gentle breeze ruffled the grass. Her words were punctuated by the blaring horn of the boat as it entered the harbor.

Steve grinned dryly at her. "Too bad nobody here can enjoy it," he remarked, completely deadpan. Beatrice burst out laughing at his completely serious expression, clapping a hand over her mouth as an old couple standing in front of a nearby grave glared at them.

Looking pleased that he'd made her laugh, Steve beckoned her down a row of headstones. At first Beatrice thought that he was trying to avoid the annoyed couple, but he stopped at the end of the row, trepidation suddenly written all over his face.

Beatrice followed him more slowly, suddenly wary in case he changed his mind and wanted to be alone after all. Neither of them spoke as she stopped beside him and followed his gaze to the two gravestones in front of them. Two white crosses, both slightly tarnished from the elements—one more so than the other—bore the names of Joseph and Sarah Rogers, who had apparently been first-generation Irish Catholic immigrants coming to New York for a better life. Like her own mother's family, Beatrice thought, only the Romanovs had been Russian.

They stood in solemn silence for a long moment, and then Beatrice knelt down and brushed the worn grass away from Joseph's grave, which had clearly been there for a good two decades longer than Sarah's. She wondered if Joseph had even known his wife was pregnant before he died, and felt a heavy sadness at the probability that he hadn't. She felt Steve's curious gaze on her as she plucked a handful of wildflowers from where they grew freely between the stones and gently placed them in the space between the two graves.

Steve looked at her, surprise on his face, and there was that smile again. The full force of it temporarily stunned her. "Thank you, Beatrice," he said.

"Anytime," she said quietly, and, wanting to give him a moment of privacy, retreated back onto the main path, her heart in her throat. Her parents' graves were closer to the entrance, but she hadn't wanted to hold Steve up—although she was sure he wouldn't have begrudged her for it.

A towering oak tree spread out its branches over the two most familiar tombstones, still bare from the winter. Beatrice kept her eyes fixed on the back of Steve's blond head for a heartbeat, taking a deep inhalation, before looking down at the inscriptions:

 _John Hartley, 1895-1942_ and beside it,  _Elena Hartley, 1901-1942._ There were three smaller slabs of rock Beatrice had found while by the river one day, each representing one of her stillborn siblings. All younger than her; Elena had never told her what their genders would have been.

Beatrice let out a slow, shaky breath as she heard Steve come up beside her, almost grateful to turn her gaze away. She couldn't look at the tombstones for too long—they were almost physically painful to look at, as if she was staring directly into the sun.

Steve took a step forward and placed a handful of his own wildflowers on the graves, echoing Beatrice's earlier gesture. Beatrice felt hot tears prick at her eyes, and she bit her lip, scared to thank him in case everything came rushing out. He bowed his head and carefully avoided her eyes, giving her her own moment of privacy. In the muted light, his hair was the color of the sun. And Steve  _was_ like a sun in his own way—radiating out steadiness and warmth and  _light_ without asking for anything in return.

When she was reasonably sure her voice wouldn't waver, she whispered, "Thank you."

* * *

Somehow the simple visit had drained Beatrice more than she'd expected, and as soon as they returned home she made herself a cup of tea and sat down heavily on the armchair, staring blankly into space. She was equal parts ashamed of herself for not visiting the cemetery sooner and relieved that she hadn't broken down in front of Steve. Not that that would be as mortifying as breaking down in front of Bucky, but she wanted to save Steve the awkwardness of trying to comfort her and her trying to assure him that there was nothing he could do. Neither of them were very good at emotions.

She saw Steve looking sideways at her as he passed through into the kitchen, and he paused, hovering awkwardly as if unsure what to say. "Hey," he said quietly. "You all right?"

Luckily, the shrill ring of the telephone sounded before Beatrice could muster up a convincing lie, and they both jumped—the party line was rarely used, and their specific apartment even less so, but Beatrice recognized the cadence of the ring. It was unmistakably for Steve.

Her mind immediately snapped to Erskine—what if something had happened to Ivan and Henry? Setting her tea down on the coaster next to the telephone's cradle, she watched Steve pick it up gingerly.

"Hello?" he asked carefully. Beatrice couldn't hear the person on the other end, but she saw Steve's posture straighten and his eyebrows draw together in a frown. "Ernest," he greeted, and Beatrice raised her own eyebrows. She couldn't think of any conceivable reason why Rebecca's sweetheart would want to call Steve; she was sure they'd exchanged less than ten words in all the time they'd known each other.

There was a long pause while Steve listened, his bewilderment only growing more pronounced with each second—and then he suddenly turned absolutely bone-white, his jaw going slack.  _"What?"_ he gasped, his voice strangled. Beatrice had never heard a sound like that come from him before, and her thoughts jumped to the worst-case scenario. Her tea forgotten, she was on her feet and crossing the room before Ernest had the chance to answer.

Steve glanced over at her, and she saw that he was gripping the telephone so tightly she was afraid it would shatter, even in his fragile grip. His eyes were wide with shock, and she had the feeling he wasn't really looking at her. He tugged at his collar as if it was physically choking him. "When?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. "Are they sure?" He closed his eyes for a second and then opened them again, as if he thought he was dreaming. Beatrice's heart was now pounding hard with adrenaline. All she could think about was Bucky. Stupidly, she wondered if the police had somehow gotten word of his involvement with Pryce's death. But she had told them everything—

Whatever answer Ernest gave seemed to calm Steve somewhat, since he loosened his grip on the telephone and replied, "Yes, of course—we'll be there right away." A moment later he let it clatter back onto the table, his mouth parted open in disbelief.

Beatrice couldn't take it anymore. "Steve?" she asked, her voice high-pitched with worry. "What happened?"

In a hollow voice, he said, "Bucky's parents are dead."

* * *

It had happened early that morning, Steve told her, when George and Winifred were on their way home from visiting a friend. The brakes had failed during a red light, and the car had gone straight into the intersection where the driver's side had been struck by another car—there had been no time for it to brake. The force of the collision had sent both cars careening onto the sidewalk, where the Barnes's car had crashed into the side of the building, killing both George and Winifred instantly. The driver of the other car had been taken to hospital with severe injuries but was expected to live. At least that was what the eyewitnesses said. According to Ernest, the police were still investigating.

Beatrice was sure that any moment she would wake up to find it had all been a horrible dream. She kept waiting for the telltale unexplainable occurrence that would suggest to her that she was actually asleep, but she and Steve caught the next streetcar without incident, and she stayed firmly in reality. "They can't be dead," she said to Steve, as if saying it would somehow make it true.

Steve, for his part, looked more shaken than she had ever seen him. "The brakes," he murmured, almost to himself. As if on cue, the streetcar squealed to an abrupt halt and Beatrice stumbled sideways into Steve, who automatically caught her by the waist. It was a credit to their current situation that neither of them blushed or even found it in them to be embarrassed. "Bucky mentioned they were faulty."

With a jolt, Beatrice remembered hearing a snippet of conversation between Bucky and George the previous week—Bucky had been telling his father that the brakes were failing. If she thought hard enough, she could remember Bucky swearing when the brakes had nearly failed the night he was driving her back from Bushwick, but he'd slammed on them hard enough that the car had shuddered to a reluctant stop. She had been too busy trying to calm down after watching Pryce die to pay attention to what was happening around her. How many times had  _she_ been in that car with Bucky and Steve? It could just as easily have been her.

"Are the police certain?" she asked, aware that it was probably the stupidest question she'd ever voiced aloud. "That it's…that it's them."

"Yes," Steve said quietly, the simple word looking as if it caused him physical pain. "According to Ernest, the rest of the family is on their way from Indiana. They should be here by tomorrow morning."

"Indiana?"

"Yeah, George and Winifred are— _were_  both from there," Steve said, looking slightly lost. "They moved to New York just before Bucky was born. He used to spend the summers there. I started going with them after Ma died."

Beatrice imagined a younger Bucky and Steve far away from the smoke and pollution of the city, spending the summer on some secluded farm with the rest of the Barneses, and found that she couldn't picture it. Both Steve and Bucky had become so entwined with the idea of the city in her mind, as if they had always been a constant presence there.

She was still struggling to process the tragedy when they got off at the Brooklyn Heights stop and walked the few blocks to Bucky's house. Several uniformed police officers were just leaving as Beatrice and Steve walked up the front path—her stomach turned over—and Ernest's car was the only one on the street. Beatrice wondered if she was just imagining the aura of grief that hung over the house—grief and shock. It had all happened so quickly. If Winifred and George had died instantly, at least they hadn't felt any pain. Somehow the notion didn't make Beatrice feel any better.

The front door was unlocked, and Steve gently pushed it open, like he was trying to draw the least amount of attention to himself. "Bucky? Rebecca?" he called, but the entryway stayed silent. Casting a worried glance back at Beatrice, who kept expecting Winifred to appear at any second with her warm smile, Steve crossed the foyer and poked his head into the drawing-room. Beatrice heard him say Rebecca's name and she hurried to his side in an instant.

The air in the parlor was heavy and still, the curtains drawn over the windows so that only a chink of light from the hallway escaped into the room. Beatrice recognized Ernest's tall, slim figure seated on the sofa, his arms around a slight brunette who was shaking with muffled sobs. Rebecca slowly lifted her head to look up at them, her pretty face tearstained, and Beatrice's heart dropped like a stone. So this wasn't a dream, then.

"Steve," Rebecca said thickly. "H—have you heard?"

"I rang him, darling," Ernest whispered to her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. This seemed to please Rebecca, who managed to give him a watery smile. She held on tightly to his arm as he handed her a tissue.

"Good," she said, blowing her nose loudly. "Bucky'll be glad. He's being an idiot right now—I was hoping you could talk some sense into him."

"As usual," Steve said, trying to inject some levity into the situation, but Ernest was the only one who looked faintly amused. He gently untangled himself from Rebecca's grasp and walked over to Steve, his expression solemn.

"They want to have the funeral tomorrow," he said in a low voice so Rebecca couldn't hear. "There's no point dressing up the bodies, as, um, the morgue said there's no way there can be a viewing. The rest of the family is taking the first train here from Indianapolis."

"Good," Steve replied. "At least they have family to support them…"

Beatrice pretended she didn't hear the unhappiness in his voice as she went over to Rebecca, feeling as if she had to comfort the younger girl somehow. They had been friendly with each other, but not particularly close—Beatrice supposed it was the same with all siblings of friends. Still, she sat down gingerly next to Rebecca and handed her another tissue, unsure what to say. When she'd been grieving for her mother, there were no words in the world that would have made it better. She felt as if she was intruding on the family's private sorrow.

Rebecca turned to look at her, blue eyes wet. They were a shade darker than Bucky's, but from this angle Beatrice felt as if she was staring at the female version of him. "B—Bucky told me that your parents are dead," she sniffled, crumpling up the tissue in her hand.

Beatrice nodded slowly. Rebecca suddenly glanced down, her hair falling over her face. "Does it—does it—" she gulped. "Does it get better?" she whispered brokenly. "I feel like—I feel like I'm going to—"

"Fall apart?" Beatrice offered quietly.

"Yes." Rebecca's breathing was coming fast and shallow again, and Beatrice guessed she was trying not to break out into fresh sobs.

She took a moment to think out her answer before carefully speaking. "It does," Beatrice said cautiously. "But it doesn't. The pain goes away, but not the emptiness. That stays. I'm sorry, Becca. I wish I could tell you that it did."

"No, I—I would rather know the truth," Rebecca told her. She lifted her head to give Beatrice a hesitant smile, but it turned out looking more like a grimace. "He's outside," she said thickly. "Bucky. Can you bring him in here? He won't listen to me or Ernest."

"What makes you think he'll listen to me, then?" Beatrice asked, but reluctantly stood up. She was suddenly nervous at the prospect of facing Bucky if he clearly wanted to be alone.

"He will," Rebecca said, wiping her eyes and reaching for another tissue. Beatrice jumped as Smokey the cat wound around her feet and leapt up onto the couch, purring softly as he went over to Rebecca. While the other girl buried her face in Smokey's fur, Beatrice slipped past Steve and Ernest, who were still discussing funeral arrangements, and through the front hallway to the kitchen. The back door was ajar, and Beatrice paused in front of it when she spotted Bucky.

Their backyard was a small rectangular patch of land that was bordered on three sides by tall hedges, most of the grass covered by a flower garden that Winifred often tended to. The steps from the house led down to an even tinier patio that held several Adirondack chairs facing the garden. Bucky was leaning against one of them, his head bowed and his back to her. Beatrice could see a curling trail of smoke rising up from between his fingers as he took a long drag from a cigarette.

She wasn't sure why she felt like she was about to face a firing squad; before she could lose her nerve, she stepped out onto the patio. She was certain he could hear the door close, but he didn't turn.

"Bucky," she said, very quietly. She wanted to point out that he'd once said to her he'd sworn off smoking, but thought better of it.

At her voice, he moved his head to the side but still didn't make eye contact. "What are you doing here?" he asked. Unlike Rebecca, his voice didn't waver but was perfectly flat. Too flat.

Beatrice wanted to take a step closer to him but found herself rooted to the spot. "Ernest called Steve," she explained. "He…he told us what happened." She sucked in a deep breath. "And then Rebecca asked me to find you."

Bucky turned around fully now, the cigarette in his fingers still trailing smoke, and finally met her gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear, and his normally neat hair was sticking out in all directions, as if he had been raking his fingers through it. Despite the lack of tears—although Beatrice was sure there had been some—he didn't look any more poised than Rebecca had. "It could have been me, Rosie," he said, and now his voice held thinly disguised anger. "It  _should have_ been me. I knew the brakes were failing but I didn't do anything about it."

" _Bucky,"_ Beatrice said again, but this time her voice was firm. "It's  _not_ your fault. You had no way of knowing what was going to happen. It could have been months before anything happened, if it did at all." His expression showed that he didn't believe a word of what she was saying, so Beatrice walked toward him until they were inches apart and stared up at his face, trying not to inhale the smoke. "It's nobody's fault," she told him. "Least of all yours. There's no use feeling guilty about it. Believe me, I know. Besides, Becca needs you," she repeated.

At his sister's name she knew she had his full attention. Up close Beatrice could see that his eyes weren't as dry as she had thought; they were now noticeably shining and he kept blinking rapidly, as if trying to hold the tears back. His cheeks were flushed. Beatrice knew she ought to look away, but she couldn't tear her gaze away from him. Instead she looked down, to the hand that was loosely holding the cigarette, and gently plucked it from his fingers.

Bucky's eyelids were heavy; he followed her gaze and his hand closed over hers to gently knock the cigarette to the ground. He dug into it with the heel of his shoe, his hand never leaving hers. Beatrice stopped breathing as he wound his fingers between her own. She could see his shoulders rising and falling as he took several shuddering gasps, and knew that he was trying to pull himself together.

"Buck?"

The moment snapped, and Beatrice let go of Bucky's hand, taking a step back from him. He straightened up, still looking slightly dazed. Steve was standing at the top of the steps, worry written all over his face.

Beatrice glanced back over at Bucky, but now his face was completely blank. "Sorry, pal," he said, his voice back to normal, and strode over to Steve, squeezing his shoulder as he passed. Beatrice wondered if that was his way of deriving some comfort from his best friend.

"Bucky, listen…" Steve began, but Bucky had already disappeared inside the house without another word to either of them. As soon as the door closed behind him, Steve turned to her helplessly.

"He blames himself," Beatrice explained.

Steve sighed heavily. "Of course he does." His eyes fell on the discarded cigarette next to Beatrice, but he didn't comment. He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. "He'll snap out of it. This is what I was like after my mom died."

Men, Beatrice thought with a tinge of bitterness. They were all the same. They would rather self-destruct than talk about their emotions in any way, shape or form.

"What were you saying to him?" Steve asked curiously.

Beatrice shrugged, crossing her arms. "Just that it wasn't his fault. He didn't believe me, though."

"Oh," Steve said. He sounded surprised, as if he had been expecting another answer. Beatrice tried to catch his eye, but he only looked at the ground and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

* * *

Neither Beatrice nor Steve got a chance to talk to Bucky again until the next day. The Buchanan and Barnes families arrived from Indiana not long after, and Rebecca and Bucky were constantly surrounded by a swarm of relatives. Many of them also knew Steve, and Beatrice found herself feeling left out. She hovered on the periphery, never quite knowing what to do or say. Death was by now familiar territory to her, but large families weren't: she wasn't sure she knew how to grieve if she wasn't on her own. Rebecca, at least, seemed to lap up the attention: she could never get a proper hold on Bucky. He was either stoically bearing tearful aunts and uncles fussing over him or in the kitchen with the liquor cabinet. There was always at least one other person with him, and Beatrice didn't feel comfortable speaking to him with an inebriated cousin around. She and Steve didn't return home until midnight, and they both went to bed with few words to each other, both emotionally exhausted from the day's events.

The funeral was hastily scheduled for the next afternoon to fit around the family's timetables, and so, for the second time in as many days, Beatrice found herself at Green-Wood Cemetery. She hadn't cleared her absence with Mrs. Reynolds, but she was finding it difficult to care if her supervisor would be angry or not. With a distinct lack of funeral clothes and time to buy them, Beatrice had no choice but to wear another one of Sarah's old outfits, a matronly black dress with a matching hat that made her look as if she was in Victorian England. She didn't think the purpose of the dress was for a funeral, but there was little else to wear.

Ernest picked them up in his convertible shortly after noon, and while Beatrice might have been excited to ride in such an expensive car under any other circumstances the novelty was lost on her. Steve wore a dark navy jacket with a striped tie, and had at least attempted to comb his hair. A tiny part of it had escaped from the rest, and somehow it made him look oddly vulnerable. Beatrice hadn't realized she was staring at him until he looked curiously over at her and she quickly glanced away, her cheeks warming for no discernible reason.

The funeral service was held in the main chapel. As Ernest had said, the bodies of George and Winifred, or what was left of them, were tightly sealed away in oak caskets that overflowed with flowers. As Beatrice and Steve climbed the steps into the chapel, she watched a gravedigger sling a shovel over his shoulder as he walked in the direction of a pile of freshly dug earth. Beatrice shuddered.

The rest of the guests slowly trickled in one by one and took their seats in the pews. Steve and Beatrice sat on either side of Bucky in a silent show of support. Somewhat to Beatrice's surprise, Rebecca sat down on her other side. The two girls exchanged smiles—Beatrice was relieved to see that Rebecca looked much stronger than she had the day before. Perhaps that was due to Ernest putting an arm around her shoulders and every so often whispering soothing words in her ear.

Later on, Beatrice found that she wasn't able to remember a word of what the priest said during the service, beyond a vague description of how generous and thoughtful George and Winifred were, and how they were taken far too soon. She was thinking of the couple she had known; of George telling her about her own father's bravery on the battlefield and his generosity in recommending her for a job. She thought of Winifred's kind smile and how she had treated Steve as another son, and her readiness to accept Beatrice into the fold.

The finality of it all hit her harder than she expected, and Beatrice had to bow her head so nobody could see the hot tears that were building up in her eyes. Bucky's hand was clenching his knee, and she wanted so badly to put her own hand over his, but her own cowardice stopped her.

The moment the priest stopped talking, Bucky suddenly stood up and strode out of the hall, slipping out through one of the side doors. Beatrice heard concerned murmurs coming from the guests at his sudden disappearance, and she was standing up before she knew it, inching her way through the pew to follow him.

When she emerged out into the corridor she glanced from left to right hopelessly, looking for any signs that would point where he had gone, before she heard footsteps in the side room where the family had gathered before the funeral. She crossed the hall and found herself in a small but well-furnished room with overstuffed chairs, wide windows, and even a piano in the corner. It was clearly meant to offer grieving families comfort, but somehow the entire atmosphere felt stiflingly artificial.

Bucky was standing at the drinks table, pouring himself a glass of hard liquor. His hand shook as he raised it to his lips.

Beatrice hurried over to him. "Bucky, don't," she said. "Please."

He allowed her to take the glass away from him, but his eyes were curiously dead. Beatrice felt as if they were in the exact same position they had been in the day before—their surroundings were the only thing that had changed.

"You understand, Rosie," he said. The desperation in his voice terrified her. "What this is like."

Beatrice finally gave into the impulse to lightly reach down and squeeze his wrist. She felt him shaking under her fingers. "I do," she said softly. "But you don't have to be alone, Bucky. Just because Steve refused your help when—when things got tough for him doesn't mean you also have to refuse his." She shook her head, grinning wryly. "Both of you are too stubborn for your own good."

Bucky's answering grin was completely humorless. Beatrice had never seen him like this before—so self-destructive and void of all reason—and she found herself wishing this time for Steve to interrupt them. But the doorway stayed frustratingly empty. When she next dared to look at his face, she saw that his eyes were very bright, and he reached up with his other arm to wipe his face with his sleeve. She watched his blank expression morph into something entirely raw and vulnerable. "Rosie, I—" he began to say, but his voice cracked, and he turned away from her.

In the only other comfort she could give, Beatrice leaned forward and rested her head against his shoulder, hoping to silently convey to him all of the things she couldn't put into words. Bucky's arm slowly wrapped around her waist until he was pulling her into his side as he had done in the car after they had found Pryce, only now the roles were reversed.

They stayed like that until Steve found them again.


	13. XIII

To Beatrice's enormous relief, Mrs. Reynolds didn't mention her absence from work at all, save for glaring at her over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. Angie, of course, peppered her with questions about why she hadn't been at the factory that day, and Beatrice tried to answer them as truthfully as she could. She hated lying to her friend.

Two days after the funeral, Beatrice and Angie were on their lunch break, the latter in the middle of an animated explanation about the date she and Gary had gone on to Coney Island over the weekend, when Mrs. Reynolds cleared her throat from behind them. They whirled around to see the older woman standing there with her arms crossed and her foot tapping impatiently on the floor. "Miss Hartley, you have a guest waiting for you outside," she said, ignoring Angie entirely. "As his credentials are valid, you may be excused for the rest of the day."

Beatrice cast her mind around for anyone who would visit her at work, and drew a blank. "Who?" she asked confusedly.

Mrs. Reynolds sniffed in disapproval. "His name is Josef Reinstein. He says he is a colleague of your uncle's."

Beatrice had never heard of anyone by that name, but if he was a colleague of Ivan's he must work for the SSR, or Stark Industries at the very least. Perhaps he had information on Henry. She stood up, brushing off her skirt, and bid goodbye to Angie before following Mrs. Reynolds.

"I suppose I ought to let you know that you had another visitor earlier today," Mrs. Reynolds said. "Of course he was not allowed inside, whether or not he is your suitor."

Beatrice almost choked. "I don't have a suitor."

"That is irrelevant. I informed him to return precisely at noon and I would fetch you, but it appears as if someone more qualified arrived first."

"What was his name?" Beatrice asked. "Did he give one?"

Mrs. Reynolds pursed her lips. "James Barnes," she said.

Beatrice was so shocked that she nearly stopped walking. "Bucky?" she gasped. "But…why was he here?"

"He did not offer a reason other than that he wished to speak with you," Mrs. Reynolds replied. "Nor did I ask for one." She suddenly turned on Beatrice. "Were you aware that his father was the one who got you this job in the first place?"

"Ah, yes," Beatrice stuttered. "Major George Barnes. He was killed very recently—"

"Yes, I heard about his accident," Mrs. Reynolds said, as if she was talking about the weather. "But that does not give his son an excuse to waltz into this factory and—"

"I understand, ma'am," Beatrice said through gritted teeth in order to get the other woman off her back. She pretended not to notice Mrs. Reynolds' answering eyebrow raise.

The supervisor led her to the front of the hangar, where a familiar white-haired man was waiting patiently at the entrance. Beatrice refrained herself from exclaiming Erskine's real name and kept her mouth shut as he stepped forward.

"Good afternoon, Beatrice," he greeted her warmly, gathering up his hat and placing it atop his head. "I do apologize for interrupting your work, but important matters have arisen concerning you, I'm afraid."

Beatrice's mouth went dry as her mind went into overdrive. Could something have happened to Ivan? "Of course, sir," she said. Erskine tipped his hat to Mrs. Reynolds, who looked as if her face was permanently frozen in an expression of displeasure, before ushering Beatrice out the door.

A sleek yellow coupe was parked on the street; Beatrice gaped at it as Erskine held open the door for her. From the Barnes's sedan to Ernest's convertible to this car, she had ridden in more luxury cars during the past week than she had ever  _seen_ in her entire life. Then again, she supposed being a high-ranking member of the SSR like Erskine was did come with benefits.

The engine started with a deafening roar, causing several men leaving the Navy Yard to whistle in appreciation—thankfully Bucky wasn't one of them—and as Erskine pulled onto the road leading to the Brooklyn Bridge, Beatrice dared to speak.

"Why did you use an alias?" she asked, before realizing that should be the least of her worries.

If she hadn't known better, she could have sworn that Erskine was  _smiling._ "One can never be too careful," he said mysteriously, but didn't elaborate. Beatrice couldn't help but wonder why exactly he  _needed_ one, as if he was worried that his visit could be traced back to her. She worried her bottom lip for a moment before choosing to selectively ignore that possibility, and instead asked the question that should have been her first one.

"Where are we going, sir?" she said with some trepidation, wondering about the secrecy.

Now she was sure that Erskine was smiling. "Mr. Stark would like to meet you."

* * *

Even at lunch hour, Stark Industries was buzzing with activity. Men dressed smartly in dark suits and expensive ties were standing in small groups around the lobby, talking amongst themselves or trying to win the hearts of the numerous secretaries, all of whom looked like they belonged in Hollywood rather than behind a desk. Nobody paid Beatrice or Erskine any attention as they went over to the elevator along the far wall and waited for the doors to open.

"Are you sure it was me that Mr. Stark wanted to see?" Beatrice asked, trying and failing to hide her anxiety. She had spent the ride over to Manhattan thinking of possible reasons why Howard Stark would want to meet  _her_ of all people. Unless it had something to do with Ivan, Beatrice had absolutely no idea. Angie was going to swoon when she found out.

Erskine smiled at her as if he could read her thoughts. "I am sure. He requested a meeting with you the moment he returned to New York."

The elevator doors dinged and swung open. Beatrice and Erskine stepped inside, the scientist pressing the button for the very top floor. Luckily they were the only ones in the elevator. As it began to ascend, soft jazz music played from hidden speakers.

"And you can't tell me what it's about?" Beatrice asked desperately, throwing aside any notions of composure.

Erskine chuckled. "I cannot, but I will assure you that it is not anything unpleasant." This did little to calm Beatrice, but at least she knew that Ivan and Henry were (presumably) still alive.

At a speed faster than any elevator she had ever been on—had it only taken less than a minute?—they stopped with a jolt and the doors slid open again. Beatrice stepped out onto a richly carpeted floor that looked as soft as velvet. She had the sudden urge to take off her shoes and walk barefoot to see if it was really as soft as it looked, but that would hardly be a favorable first impression.

They appeared to be in some sort of waiting-room, with plush armchairs scattered around the lounge and a tall bookshelf in the corner, but there was no secretary in sight. The only door aside from the elevator bore no names or plaques and looked to be made of solid oak.

Erskine had already walked over to the bookshelf and was examining it. Beatrice looked helplessly at him; he nodded at the door and said, "Go ahead. He is expecting you."

"You're not coming with me?" she blurted. When Erskine shook his head, looking amused, Beatrice had to take a moment to calm down and face the fact that she would be meeting one of the most famous men in the world all by herself. She could sense the old doctor's amusement as she walked over to the door and hesitantly knocked. She wished that Bucky and Steve were with her.

"Come in," she heard Stark call. She recognized his voice at once. Beatrice cast one more pleading glance at Erskine before opening the door and timidly stepping inside the office.

It was even more lavish than the room outside, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city, the dark crimson tapestry pulled aside. The Persian carpet on the floor was woven with rich, bright colors and nearly spanned the length of the entire room. Instead of one desk in the center of the office, multiple smaller tables were scattered around the room, many containing blueprints or strange metallic inventions that looked only half-finished, many of which appeared to be moving entirely on their own and several even making high-pitched whirring and whining sounds. There were several pictures on the only wall that didn't boast a window, all of beautiful women lounging on various pieces of furniture and wearing the least amount of clothing possible. In the picture directly across from Beatrice, a smoky-eyed blonde she was certain she had once seen in a film wore nothing at all.

She swallowed nervously and looked around for the source of the voice, which, judging by the empty office, had come out of nowhere. She was about to speak when she sensed movement on her left and a man leapt to his feet, extending his hand to her.

Beatrice's first impression of Howard Stark was that he was much shorter than he seemed in pictures. She wasn't one to talk, of course, but her eye level was above his shoulders, which didn't occur frequently. The newspapers made him out to be larger-than-life, and it was somewhat of a comfort to see that he actually wasn't. He was very handsome, with slicked-back dark hair and a moustache that looked slightly singed. His eyes were sharp and she could feel the way they flicked up and down her body before coming to rest on her face. "Are you the ballet dancer from Chicago?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly ordinary.

Beatrice's eyebrows shot up. "No!" she exclaimed. "I'm—I'm Beatrice Hartley. Ivan Romanov's niece. I was informed that you wanted to meet me."

Stark didn't look embarrassed in the least. "Ah, that's right," he said, letting go of her hand and circling back around to the front of the room. "I must have my one o'clock and four o'clock appointments mixed up." Before her incredulous eyes, he retrieved a bottle of bourbon from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a healthy amount. "Would you like a drink?" he offered. "Food? I can get Lorraine to bring you something. I know the finest steakhouse in all of New York—"

Beatrice was suddenly struck with the sensation of being a fish out of water. This was not the world to which she belonged. "No thank you, Mr. Stark," she stammered. "I've already eaten. It's—it's an honor to finally meet you, sir," she said, hating how starstruck she sounded. She pulled at a loose thread on her drab gray dress. "I've been told many things about you."

"Call me Howard," the man in question replied, taking a seat on the edge of his desk and carelessly brushing aside the blueprints to clear a space to sit. He waved his hand carelessly and, to Beatrice's utter shock, a chair that had been sitting in a corner of the room zoomed toward her seemingly of its own accord. It gently nudged against the back of her knees, and she collapsed into it, staring wide-eyed up at him. "What was  _that?"_ she choked, unsure if she should believe what she had just seen. She was glad it had been a chair; she would have lost her balance otherwise.

"One of my best inventions," Howard answered proudly. "It worked on the fifth try. I was thinking of patenting it, starting a line…but you don't seem like the type of girl who likes to talk business." He put down his glass and leaned forward, staring intently at her. "You know, you look a lot like your uncle."

Beatrice was flattered at finally being compared to her mother's side of the family rather than her father's. "But you thought I was a ballet dancer from Chicago," she pointed out.

Howard shrugged. "We all make mistakes, kid." She bristled; in actuality he couldn't have been more than a couple of years older than her, but something about him commanded the presence of a man who was at least thirty. Beatrice felt much younger than she actually was. "You even have that uptight look to you. I'm always telling Ivan to loosen up."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Beatrice said dryly. Eager to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible—although Howard looked perfectly at ease—she asked, "Have you heard anything from my uncle, Mr. Sta—Howard?"

Howard took a moment to swirl his drink around as if he was purposely prolonging the suspense before flashing her a charming grin. "Actually, I have," he said. "That's why I asked Erskine to bring you here—that, and because I was interested in the long-lost niece Ivan's been talking about for years. Don't worry, he and your brother are completely fine. They docked in Southampton yesterday and I had someone fly them to Russia straight away. They arrived in Stalingrad about three hours ago."

Beatrice could have cried in relief; instead, she forced herself to maintain her composure. "And they'll be safe there?" she couldn't resist asking.

"You bet," said Howard. "Listen, Ivan is a damned genius, and he's not going to let anything happen to your brother. Trust me."

Beatrice found it rather difficult to take him at his word, seeing as how  _he_ was the one who sent her uncle to Russia in the first place. She felt resentment stir inside her again, and she fixed her gaze slightly above his head so he couldn't read the annoyance in her eyes. Unfortunately, that put her at level with the portrait of the nude woman, whose seductive smile reminded her far too much of Connie. Deciding she would rather think about Stark than Connie, Beatrice firmly told herself that if anyone was at fault, it was Ivan himself for choosing to bring Henry along with him, and refocused on Howard, whose stare had turned thoughtful. "So Ivan mentioned you wanted to be a nurse," he said, sliding off the desk and making his way back over to the liquor cabinet. "He said you nearly signed up for the Red Cross last year."

"Yes," Beatrice said carefully, unsure where he was heading. Howard cast a speculative eye at her as he sniffed a bottle of brandy and wrinkled his nose, apparently thinking better of it, before turning back to her.

"How'd you like to go to Europe, work with the SSR branch in London?" he asked. "You'd be a great asset. No one would ever suspect a woman—"

"Howard," Erskine warned. Beatrice jumped; she hadn't heard him come into the office. "Ivan forbade us from getting her involved in any way."

Stark didn't look dissuaded in the least. "That doesn't mean he can prevent _her_  from getting involved with  _us._ What do you say, kid? The pay's great and there are plenty of soldiers who'd love to have you stitch them up."

Beatrice spluttered, casting about for a response, but luckily she was saved by a brisk knock on the door and it swung open without waiting for Howard's answer. A pair of heels could be heard clacking against the floor, and suddenly a pretty brunette was standing in the doorway next to Erskine. Her gaze swept across Beatrice and Erskine—if she was wondering who Beatrice was, her expression betrayed nothing. "You have a message from Colonel Phillips," she told Howard in a crisp British accent. "He wants you to cancel your remaining appointments and accompany him to the training camp within the hour."

"Tell him I'm busy," Howard said. His mustache twitched as he grinned at the woman, who looked exasperated.

"You can tell him that yourself," she said primly. "He's waiting outside." This time a thin smile curved across her face for half a second at Howard's disgruntled expression before she swept out of the office again with a nod to Erskine.

"Nice to see you too, Peg!" Howard called after her, but his only response was the clicking of the door as it shut behind her.

"Was that your secretary?" Beatrice dared to ask after a moment of silence. She couldn't imagine anyone treating their employer so flippantly—especially not if said employer was one of the most influential businessmen alive.

Howard burst out laughing. "No, and don't ever let her hear you suggest that. She's one of the SSR's most valuable agents, female or otherwise."

"Let's hope she did hear  _you_  admit that," Erskine said, smiling slightly. "I suggest you find the colonel as soon as possible, Mr. Stark."

"Yeah, yeah," Howard muttered, eyeing another bottle in the well-stocked cabinet. This time he forewent the glass and went straight for the bottle. Beatrice winced, although she couldn't help but get the impression that he was exaggerating. "He knows the American branch of the SSR wouldn't be anywhere without my gracious funding."

"That may be true," Erskine admitted. "But he certainly knows more about your dalliances than you would like the newspapers to know about."

Beatrice watched the entire exchange with a sense of confusion and slight dizziness, as if she had been plucked straight out of her mundane life and thrown into an alien world. She had to look out the windows and focus on the familiar cityscape to remind herself that she was still in New York and Brooklyn was just across the river.  _Bucky_ was just across the river, she thought, and her heart sped up ridiculously fast. She had almost completely forgotten that he had shown up at the factory, so preoccupied had she been with her visit with Howard Stark. Worry began to worm its way into her head: she had no idea how he and Rebecca were coping after the funeral.

"…take you back to Brooklyn," Erskine was saying, and blinking slightly, dazed, Beatrice realized that the old doctor was speaking to her. "Unless, of course, you wish to be dropped off elsewhere. You live in Flatbush, correct?"

"Actually," said Beatrice, an idea suddenly popping into her head, "I was going to go to Brooklyn Heights, if that's all right."

Gathering up an armful of what looked like blueprints from one of the desks, Howard said, "Don't worry about it, Erskine. I'll send one of my chauffeurs to bring her back."

"The pleasure is all mine," Erskine said. "The reasoning may also have something to do with the fact that the drive back to Queens is more enjoyable that way. The traffic is far more bearable." He beckoned to Beatrice, and she rose up out of the chair to follow him to the door, keeping it in her peripheral vision so she would be able to tell if it moved of its own accord again.

"Visit anytime, you hear?" Howard called after her. Beatrice could have sworn he winked at her. She blushed madly, staring at her feet.

As soon as they were back in the waiting-room, Erskine turned to her. "So what did you think of Mr. Stark?" he asked. "I know that he can be eccentric, but he means well. Your uncle trusts him with his life."

"I'm sure he grows on you," said Beatrice, causing Erskine to laugh so loudly she was sure Stark could hear them.

* * *

As soon as she arrived at the Barnes's house, another idea began to worm its way into Beatrice's mind. She thanked Erskine for the drive and waited until his car had disappeared before dashing across the garden and pulling herself up onto the trellis. It was a lot easier to climb in daylight, where she could see the thorns, but it also gave her a reason to be slightly embarrassed. She hadn't thought this decision through at all. What if someone saw her? What if he wasn't even home? But all she felt was that she wanted to cheer Bucky up in any way she could, even if it meant humiliating herself in the process.

Thankfully she made quick work of the trellis, scaling it in just under half the time it had previously taken her and escaping with no scratches. Still, part of her marveled at how smoothly she had made the decision and followed through with it; this was not the sort of thing that the Beatrice a year ago would have done; perhaps not even something she would have done a month ago. She had done it the first time because there had been no other choice, no time for premeditation. Now she'd had a choice.

But acting without thinking came with consequences, and Beatrice found herself staring one right in the face when she saw the closed window. She imagined Donald Smith from next door watching her failed attempt to surprise Bucky, and muttered a word under her breath that would have made Bucky himself proud. She supposed that she could climb down, but she was out of breath and couldn't stand for her efforts to be naught; if anything, the failure would prevent her from acting on impulse ever again.

Beatrice cupped her hands and peered through the window into Bucky's bedroom. From what she could make out, it was a mess: the bed was unmade, the bedclothes piled on the floor as if he had kicked them off; clothes were scattered across the floor; books and papers littered the desk—even his olive drab uniform was hanging on the handle of the closet. The room was a far cry from its previous organized state. It was also empty.

She curled her fingers around the windowsill and tried her hardest to yank it up, but it wouldn't move an inch, not even when she threw all her strength into it. It must have been jammed.

"Damn it," Beatrice said to herself, and slammed her palm against the glass in frustration. The panes rattled slightly, and she had just about admitted defeat and begun the descent when there was movement inside the room and the window slid open, and she was suddenly face-to-face with Bucky.

He wasn't wearing a shirt, and his hair was dripping wet as if he had just come out of the shower. Beatrice mentally cursed herself for the horrible timing—did she have some sort of propensity for disturbing people when they weren't fully clothed? At least Bucky wasn't completely undressed. She wasn't sure she could handle another situation like the one she'd had with Steve, especially not right now.

"Rosie?" Bucky asked, stunned, as if it could possibly be anyone else. He briefly opened and closed his eyes as if to make sure she was really there. "I thought I heard a noise. What are you doing here?"

"I—I wanted to surprise you," she admitted. Bucky reached out and gripped her elbows, pulling her inside the room. She tried very hard to keep her eyes away from his bare chest.

"No, I mean, what are you doing  _here?"_ he repeated, gesturing to the window. "You climbing up to my room like I'm Rapunzel."

"I don't know," she said honestly. "It was a ridiculous idea, I'm sorry—"

"No, it wasn't," Bucky interrupted. "Well, it was, but it made my day, Rosie. It's not often a guy walks into his room to find a gal having climbed through his window."

Beatrice turned her head, blushing madly. "Well, I didn't quite manage to climb through your window," she mumbled.

"Semantics," Bucky joked; for a brief moment, he sounded like himself again. There was a hardness to his eyes and mouth that hadn't left him since the funeral, but his expression had softened. Beatrice was very aware of the water dripping from his hair and running down his bare shoulders. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

"Mrs. Reynolds told me that you showed up at the factory today," she said, hoping to distract herself from the sight. "That you wanted to see me."

"Yeah, I did," Bucky said. He went over to the closet, kicking the old clothes under his bed as he did before shrugging on a white undershirt. Beatrice was both relieved and disappointed. "She told me to come back at noon and so I did, but she said you had already left. What an old—"

"Erskine took me to Stark Tower," Beatrice interrupted. "I met Howard Stark."

This caught Bucky's attention; he turned around to face her and looked slightly awed. "Really? What was he like?"

"A bit full of himself, really," Beatrice said, causing a tiny grin to appear on Bucky's face—it was faint, but it was there all the same. "He said that my uncle and Henry made it to Russia."

Bucky looked relieved. "Well, that's good news, then. Are you sure he didn't want to take you for a ride in his Rolls-Royce or something?"

Beatrice frowned. "Are you insinuating something?"

"Of course not," Bucky told her. The hardness was suddenly back in his voice, brought on for no reason at all. "But it's a well-known fact that Stark will flirt with anything that moves."

"And you don't?" Beatrice snapped back without thinking, inexplicably annoyed. Bucky took a step back from her, opening his mouth as if he was about to retort, before shaking his head and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Never mind," he muttered. "I was just kidding."

Beatrice was still trying to process what had just happened when there were footsteps in the hallway outside and Rebecca stuck her head inside the room. Like Bucky, she appeared more composed than the day of George and Winifred's funeral, but there were dark circles under her eyes and they were red-rimmed, although she had clearly tried to cover up the worst of it with makeup.

"Oh, hello, Beatrice," she said. "I didn't hear the door."

"Well," Beatrice replied, slightly embarrassed, "I didn't come in through the door."

Rebecca raised her eyebrows, looking impressed. "So you came in through the window? That's creative." She turned to Bucky. "There's a girl on the telephone asking for you. She says her name is Connie."

Beatrice's sudden surge of jealousy was somewhat assuaged by the annoyed look on Bucky's face. "Tell her I'm not home."

"You tell her that," Rebecca shot back, unimpressed. "Do you have a fever? I can't think of one time you haven't been tripping over yourself to talk to a girl."

Bucky glared at his younger sister, who refused to back down. "Fine," he said after a moment, throwing his hands up in the air. He looked too exhausted to carry on the argument. "I'll be back in a minute, Rosie," he told Beatrice before leaving the room, leaving her alone with Rebecca.

If Beatrice had to guess, she would have thought that Bucky's sister had a smug smile on her face. "She looks a lot like you, you know." Rebecca nodded her head in the direction of the door. "That Connie girl."

"Or  _I_ look a lot like  _her_ ," Beatrice mumbled, surprised at the turn of the conversation. "He thinks of me like a sister."

Rebecca gave a short laugh. "Yeah, right. He treats us very differently, in case you haven't noticed."

Beatrice was trying to think of scenarios where she could prove the other girl wrong when Bucky walked back into the room, smoothing his hair back absent-mindedly.

"That had to be the shortest call in history," Rebecca remarked, patting Bucky's arm. "What did you tell her?"

"That I was busy and I would call her back later," Bucky said, frowning at his sister. "What's it to you?"

Beatrice, however, barely heard Rebecca's response: she was too busy staring at her left hand, on which a sparkling diamond ring sat atop her third finger. "You're engaged?" she blurted out.

Rebecca grinned like the cat who had swallowed the canary and nodded, displaying the sparkling ring proudly. Bucky groaned. "Ernest proposed to me yesterday," she said. "We're getting married this summer. He wants to make sure I'm taken care of, after…" She trailed off, but it was clear to all three of them what she had been talking about.

"I'm glad to hear that," Beatrice said in an attempt to alleviate the awkward atmosphere. "You two seem really happy together."

Rebecca's answering smile was brighter than the sun.

"Yeah, yeah, we get it," Bucky said, but his eyes were full of warm amusement as he regarded his sister. "You're about to become a hundred times more insufferable than you already are."

"As if you know what that word even means," Rebecca teased, gently shoving him in Beatrice's direction. She quickly stepped back, but wasn't fast enough: he stumbled back into her and Beatrice was momentarily distracted by the scent of cologne and something that was entirely  _him,_ entirely Bucky, before he righted himself and glared at Rebecca. She grinned and then was out of the door before he could catch her. Bucky muttered something under his breath about sisters and turned back to Beatrice.

She hoped he wouldn't try to continue their previous conversation about Howard Stark, so instead she spoke before he could. "What did you want to tell me when you came to the factory?" she asked. "That Becca was engaged?"

Bucky shook his head, his forehead creasing as he regarded her. He took a deep breath as if he was about to speak before seeming to catch himself. "I'll get to that later," he said. "Do you have any plans for this afternoon?"

"No," Beatrice said, baffled.

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Come on, then," he said, and walked over to the door. "I'll take you to Coney Island."

* * *

Beatrice had been to Coney Island many times when she was a child, and the place was home to many of her happiest memories. She remembered the carousel with its gold-painted horses, the spun cotton candy that had given her a stomachache for days, the feel of the sand under her feet and the cold water lapping at her ankles while the hot sun beat down upon her hair. Coney Island was intertwined with childhood for her; at least when her father had still been working. He'd held her hand as she had run up and down along the beach looking for seashells and had picked her up and set her on his shoulders as they wound through the crowds. One time she had dropped her ice-cream cone and when she wouldn't stop crying, John had waited in the crowded line at the booth for half an hour to buy her another one. The memories weighed her down, as if her heart was suddenly a hundred pounds. It seemed as if it hadn't happened to  _her,_ but to another person entirely. Beatrice had begun to subconsciously avoid Coney Island when she became a teenager but she hadn't entirely understood why until now. A lump formed in her throat when she saw the familiar glittering neon sign at the entrance to Luna Park, and she had to glance away from the bright lights to the dark ocean beyond, the boardwalk lit by lampposts. She hoped Bucky wouldn't think her sentimentality ridiculous. No one lived in the moment more than he did.

He was oddly quiet walking beside her, his hands in his pockets and a thoughtful expression on his face. Beatrice wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but he seemed so absorbed in whatever he was pondering that she didn't want to bother him. A thousand questions were on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't ask any of them. Even if _he_ had asked her what  _she_ was thinking about, she wouldn't have been able to tell him.

They wove through the throngs of people that crowded the park, from the brave souls that were already on the beach in spring to those waiting in line at the rides. Beatrice couldn't help but notice the appreciative glances many of the women were giving Bucky. Had it always been that way, or was she just more sensitive to it now?

"Are you hungry?" he asked her as they passed the food shacks, pausing in front of a hotdog stand. The smell of frying food made Beatrice's stomach growl; she suddenly regretted turning down the opportunity of lunch from Howard.

"Actually, I am," she admitted. "I didn't get the chance to finish lunch."

"Wait here," Bucky instructed, and ducked into the crowd. Beatrice watched his retreating back, unaware that she was smiling stupidly at him, and went to find a break in the crowds, leaning against the railing. Here she could feel the cool breeze coming off the ocean, ruffling her hair, and taste the salty tang in her mouth. Her gaze caught on the line to the Cyclone, the roller coaster she had never been brave enough to ride, and the third idea that day sprang into her head, no less as idiotic as the ones she had had earlier. She had no idea what was wrong with her; it was as if a different girl entirely had taken her place and was making her decisions for her. Or perhaps it was just because of Bucky.

He came up to her a moment later, holding a hotdog laden with ketchup and mustard. "I forgot I wasn't carrying enough change," he said sheepishly. "Do you mind if we share?"

"No, of course not," Beatrice replied. Bucky handed her the hotdog and she eagerly took a bite out of it—it was warm and greasy and everything she remembered about the food at Coney Island. She'd eaten nearly half of it before she realized he was watching her with amusement, and sheepishly handed it back to him. "Sorry," she said, hoping there wasn't any ketchup around her mouth. "I guess I was hungrier than I thought."

"Good thing I'm not hungry, then," Bucky joked, taking a bite from it. There was something oddly intimate about them sharing food, just as it had been when they had shared a Coke at the dance hall. She hoped she wouldn't blush, although that  _not_  happening seemed unlikely at this point. She had blushed more times since she'd met the boys than she had in her entire life.

As Bucky popped the remainder of the hotdog into his mouth, Beatrice nodded at the rollercoaster in front of them—the line had thinned out. "Have you ever been on the Cyclone?" she asked.

Bucky nodded and grinned at her. "Steve threw up last time I took him on the Cyclone."

"God," said Beatrice, trying to feel bad for Steve and laughing instead. "I'm sorry. For both you and him."

"Yeah, it wasn't pretty," Bucky replied, though he didn't look upset at all.

"Want to go on it?" The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.  _God, what is wrong with me?_

He seemed just as shocked as she was—his eyebrows shot up and he looked as if she had asked him to strip naked and dance the Charleston right then and there (although knowing Bucky, he probably would). "But we just ate."

Beatrice was now beginning to wish she had just dropped the subject, but there was no going back now. "So?" she asked uncomfortably. "We didn't eat…much. And I think I have a stronger stomach than Steve."

" _Everyone_ has a stronger stomach than Steve," Bucky muttered. He was still looking at her as if she had morphed into someone completely different before his eyes. "What's gotten into you, Rosie?" he asked. "First you climb through my window and now you're asking to go on the Cyclone."

"Believe me, I wish I could tell you," Beatrice admitted. "I just…I just want to cheer you up. You know, when you first met me, I was a mess. But you and Steve did more for me than I can ever repay you for." She shrugged. "I guess I just want to try to pay you back any way I can, since I know that you're…well, I wouldn't say a mess, but going through a tough time. If any of that even made sense." She trailed off quietly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She couldn't meet his eyes.

To her astonishment, Bucky laughed quietly. "Rosie, you don't need to do this," he said. "You cheer me up just by…" She glanced up at him, and he quickly shook his head, trailing off. "But if you insist, then I'll be happy to accept the challenge." With that, he began walking up to the rollercoaster; Beatrice felt a surge of panic.

"Wait!" she called, jogging after him. "You don't have any change, and I didn't bring money, so I guess we're stuck." She couldn't believe she hadn't thought of that excuse before.

Bucky grinned wickedly at her, reached into his pocket, and tossed two quarters into the ticket booth.

"Hey!" Beatrice exclaimed. "I thought you said you ran out of change."

"I guess I was mistaken," he said, with a sideways grin that made her breath catch in her throat. "Come on, Rosie. You can hold my hand if you get nervous."

Beatrice wished she had a snappy comeback she could utilize in situations like this, but as usual, whenever Bucky spoke to her she felt as if the nerve connecting her brain to her mouth suddenly vanished. She was left but no choice but to nervously follow him—of course, the moment it was  _her_ turn to go on a ride the line mysteriously disappeared.

They were waiting for less than five minutes before the attendant ushered them into an empty car. Beatrice was beginning to feel very much like she was going to regret her decision as she slid in beside Bucky and gripped the side of the car. The Cyclone was all rickety wooden boards and sharp curves; if it turned out that her stomach wasn't, in fact, stronger than Steve's, she just prayed it would wait to empty itself until after she got off the ride.

Bucky, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying her terror. His legs were stretched out as far as they could be in the tiny space and he was leaning back in the seat as if he was relaxing on a chair. His grin only widened when he saw her incredulous look. Beatrice was about to ask him if it was too late to get off before the ride suddenly jerked forward and they were speeding down the track, the wind whipping her hair back.

The girls sitting behind them were screaming so loudly Beatrice couldn't hear anything else, and the couple in front of them had their arms wrapped around each other. She, however, didn't dare to open her mouth, not knowing whether she would scream or throw up. She felt her internal organs rearranging themselves as they swerved around a sharp bend, and forgoing all pride she grabbed onto Bucky's arm and held fast as the car rose high up into the air—there was a strange swooping sensation in her stomach as it went hurtling down the hill at a speed that should be illegal, leaving her stomach at the top. She wanted to close her eyes, but feared that it would only upset her sense of balance now. She felt Bucky laughing beside her and only increased her grip on his arm. She hoped he was losing circulation.

The ride couldn't have been more than two minutes, but it felt like much longer. Beatrice rode out the sharp turns and hills as best as she could while Coney Island spun crazily around her—after the fourth time her legs slammed into the side of the car after a particularly sharp turn, she knew she would have a bruise the next day—and by the time the car screeched to a stop, she was more than a bit queasy and wishing she hadn't eaten the hotdog, much less even suggested going on the Cyclone.

She glanced sheepishly over at Bucky, whose hair was windswept and his face flushed. He looked even more handsome than before, and her heart skipped a painful beat as she slowly let go of his arm. "Sorry," she mumbled, and stood up to hop onto the ground. She stumbled slightly, off-balance, and he was quick to steady her, his hands on either side of her waist. She was glad that she didn't have to make eye contact as they clambered back onto land, still feeling the sensation of his hands on her.

"That was something, huh?" Bucky asked, looking satisfied.

"Yeah…it was something, all right," Beatrice replied once she was sure the nausea had completely faded. Her heart was pounding hard and the adrenaline was making her limbs shake. Now that she was free of the ride, however, she couldn't say that she completely hated it: but she made a vow then and there never to go on the Cyclone again as long as she lived. Once was more than enough in her opinion.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder and nearly jumped out of her skin. "Are you all right, Rosie?" Bucky asked her quietly.

"Yes!" Beatrice nearly shouted in an attempt to sound cheerful. "I'm fine. Just a bit queasy, that's all." She put her hand on her stomach. "I think I need to sit down."

Never taking his hand off her, Bucky guided her back through the main thoroughfare and to the boardwalk, where they sat down on a bench overlooking the ocean. The crowds that had previously been on the beach were beginning to thin out; Beatrice realized it must be nearly time for supper. Steve would soon be wondering where she was.

"Is that any better?" Bucky asked her; bless him, he actually seemed concerned. Not wanting him to worry about her, Beatrice gave him a small smile and nodded.

"Much, thank you." They sat in silence for several moments before, in an attempt to take her mind off her stomach, Beatrice glanced over at Bucky. Half of his face was cast in shadow as his solemn gaze stared out to sea. When he realized she was staring at him, he turned back to her, a smile already crossing his features, although, as always, she couldn't tell whether it was sincere or not. It vanished as soon as she spoke her next words.

"Why did you want to come here?" she asked, gesturing around them.

"I don't know," Bucky said quietly, and bowed his head so he was staring at his shoes, scuffing them on the boardwalk. "I guess…I've just wanted to do this for a while. Going to Coney Island with you."

Beatrice crossed her legs and leaned closer to him, hyperaware of their proximity. "What did you want to tell me? It must have been important if you came to the factory."

"Yeah," he said, and cleared his throat. Beatrice saw his shoulders rise as he took a deep breath. "I quit my job," he said, the words sounding completely matter-of-fact.

She drew back and stared at him. "What?"

Bucky nodded. He still wouldn't look at her. "There's no point to it anymore, Rosie. Mom and Dad left everything to me and Becca. There's enough in there to last us the rest of our lives." He paused. "Besides, I'm going to be shipped out soon anyway."

"You don't know that," Beatrice said, feeling as if she had been punched in the gut. "You can't know exactly when—"

"It'll be by the end of the summer," Bucky said. His voice was devoid of all emotion. "They're shipping thousands of men over there every week. Unless the war ends tomorrow, I'll be gone soon enough. Listen, I don't feel as bad about it now that I know Steve has someone else to look out for him, keep him out of trouble." Before she could retort, he added, "Proctor— _Ernest_ has a place up in Connecticut, but Becca wants to stay here in Brooklyn. I told them they can keep the house, raise a family. They're letting me live there until I get shipped out."

"Bucky…"

"But that's not even what I wanted to tell you." He grinned again, ruefully. "It'll take a few weeks before the will is finalized and everything is settled in court. Until then, my uncle offered to let us stay at his place in Shelbyville. Indiana," he clarified at Beatrice's blank stare. "It's about thirty miles southeast of Indianapolis. I used to spend summers there when I was a kid."

Her mouth had suddenly gone very dry. "And?" she asked, hoping he couldn't hear the tension in her voice.

Now Bucky looked very uncomfortable. Beatrice wasn't sure she had ever seen him look so apprehensive. "My family wants Becca and I to go spend the remaining time with them—sort out the will and plan her marriage to Ernest. And, well, I invited Steve along with me. He knows the place, and besides, he needs to get out of the city. He'll never admit it, but he's healthier away from all the pollution."

Beatrice hadn't been aware she was holding her breath until she let it out in one long exhale. "And you want to spend time with him before you're shipped out," she realized.

Bucky nodded, his eyes widening slightly. "You're good, Rosie. The thing is, I want you to come with us too."

She couldn't hide her surprise. "Me?" Beatrice asked, stunned. She imagined leaving New York for the very first time; imagined spending as much time with Bucky and Steve as she wanted. "But—won't there be enough room?"

He nodded. "Yeah—you and Becca can share a bedroom. My family'll be fine with it."

She sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to remain in reality. "I don't want to intrude on your family—"

"Rosie, you're—" Bucky's voice was suddenly fierce. "You're like family to me too, now. They all met you at the…at the funeral and they were all talking about how polite and well-mannered you are. They really like you."

Beatrice's palms began to sweat; she suddenly felt more nervous than she had before going on the Cyclone. "Bucky, I can't…" she said. "I have to keep working. Mrs. Reynolds won't allow me to take any time off. And someone needs to look after Steve's place…"

Bucky's face visibly fell, and Beatrice's heart sank with it. She didn't dare to think about getting out of the city, seeing sights she had never seen before, getting to know Bucky's family, not worrying about work or money or her day-to-day problems. But perhaps the most tempting notion was that she would be in close proximity to Bucky all the time. She was sure their friendship would solidify even more, if such a thing was even possible, if she went to Indiana with him and Steve.

But that was the root of the problem—getting closer to him. She didn't know  _what_  would happen if she got closer to Bucky. Sometimes she felt as if she was dangling on a precipice by the tips of her fingers, with just enough strength to climb back up. Letting go would be much easier, but she had no idea what awaited her at the bottom—whether it was death or something else entirely. Looking at him now, she was hit with an overwhelming sensation of emotions that she had no idea how to process, let alone manage: joy, nervousness, embarrassment, tenderness, and something else, something deeper, that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She wanted to go to Indiana because she wanted to be with Bucky. She wanted to follow him wherever he went, however dramatic that sounded, but she also wanted to run away and never see him again, because she had no experience with boys and she didn't even have a mother she could ask advice from. She wasn't sure she would be able to stand it if she  _truly_ fell in love with Bucky and he would perhaps flirt with her if he knew of her feelings before going off to chase after the next pretty girl in a skirt. Beatrice didn't think her heart was resilient enough for that.

But perhaps the very worst part was that she couldn't even tell him why she had to refuse his offer, which was a dream come true: that she was scared.

* * *

Zola peered into his microscope, examining the Tesseract closely. It was truly a work of art unlike anything he had ever seen—the energy it gave off, he was certain, was enough to kill every being on the planet if harnessed properly. Its electric blue light was so powerful he had to wear goggles so that he wouldn't be blinded by it. It seemed, to him, almost alive, pulsing and radiating with sheer energy. A stray zap had shot out of the cube earlier for no reason whatsoever, breaking the glass in his other microscope. He did not understand how Schmidt could handle the artifact so callously.

"She is beautiful, is she not?" a voice asked from the doorway. Zola quickly straightened up, removing his goggles and saluting Schmidt himself.

"She is…certainly something," agreed Zola, somewhat warily. Schmidt did not come into his laboratory unless he required something. He watched the other man stride over to the altered radio in the far corner and examine it thoughtfully.

"How are your experiments going?" Schmidt asked without turning around. "You are not running out of subjects, are you?"

"No, I am not," Zola replied, glancing down at the glowing cube. "But the experiments are not going well, I am afraid. It appears that none of the subjects can withstand the Tesseract's energy surge. Their hearts stop instantly. I have been trying for months on soldiers of all ages and backgrounds."

Schmidt straightened up and smirked across the room at him. "Well then, Dr. Zola, perhaps it is time to try it on a woman, hmmm?"

"With all due respect, I do not think that will change anything—"

"You misunderstand me, Doctor," Schmidt interrupted. He sounded amused. "You see, I am expecting a…special guest within the next few months. If she fails to give me the information I seek, she will be all yours."

Zola frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You will find out soon enough." Schmidt bent down in front of the radio and twisted the red dial; the speaker instantly crackled to life. Zola was not surprised in the least when Kruger's voice emanated from its depths.

"Herr Schmidt," Kruger greeted him. "It has been too long since our last talk."

Schmidt didn't bother with formalities. "Do you have anything on Erskine?" he barked.

"Yes…and no," said Kruger. As usual, Zola pretended to be absorbed in his work while listening intently. "I have not been able to discover anything more concerning the serum, but I do know that the Hartley girl is more connected with Erskine than we thought. Today one of my contacts informed me that she got into a car with Erskine. They went to Stark Industries."

Schmidt stroked his chin thoughtfully. "So you believe that she knows about the serum?"

"It is possible," Kruger replied. "Her uncle Ivan Romanov is certain to be working on it, but he has already left for Russia."

"Do not worry about Herr Romanov," said Schmidt, beginning to pace back and forth. "Our Soviet allies will take care of him. Our focus now is on Erskine, and how close the Americans are to replicating the serum. Could you act as an employee for Stark Industries?"

"No," said Kruger. "I am not in New York most of the time. I must stay with that senator, otherwise Erskine may begin to suspect me. Only the most trusted members of the SSR know the status of the serum. What we need is a weak link."

"And it appears we have found one," Schmidt declared. "The girl must not be completely ignorant. What have you found about her?"

"She has no family," Kruger said. "The only link I could trace back to her was Romanov and her landlord. I confronted him and all he had for me was that she was going to be an Allied nurse, but ultimately did not go through with it. Of course, I disposed of him once I was finished so that she could not trace it back to us. However, I did make sure she was present at the time. I have one more person I will interrogate, and this time I will make sure that she knows it was because of her."

Schmidt nodded approvingly. "If the girl wanted to be a nurse, it should be easy to persuade her to become one now. Once she is in Europe, it will be much easier to find her. You must make it so that she sees no other choice."

"I have already thought ahead and begun the process of isolating her," said Kruger.

"Why?" Zola couldn't help but ask. Human interaction had never been his strong suit. He failed to see why Kruger couldn't just take the girl and bring her to them, or better yet, infiltrate the SSR itself.

Schmidt answered for Kruger. "It is a long game we are playing, Arnim. She must not suspect anything until the very last second. And if she proves to be…less than useful to our aims, they will search for her."

Zola frowned. "But if the girl willingly becomes a nurse under her own power, they may believe that her disappearance is due to an unfortunate accident."

"Not if they do not know where she has gone," said Kruger.

"It was never just about the girl." Schmidt sounded agitated. "If she does not have the information we seek, she knows people who do. She is expendable."

"Well," Zola admitted, fidgeting with his microscope, "I do require more subjects. If we make a sufficient threat against this girl's well-being, the SSR may be more willing to come after her rather than counting her as an unavoidable casualty."

"You finally understand, Doctor," said Schmidt. "It is rather a clever idea, is it not?" Before Zola could answer, he turned back to the radio. "I will leave the details up to you, Herr Kruger," he said. The two men exchanged an exclamation of "Hail Hydra" before Kruger terminated the connection, and this time Zola joined in.


	14. XIV

It had been exactly two weeks, four days, and twenty-three hours since Beatrice had last seen Bucky and Steve—not that she was counting. She'd seen them off at Grand Central Station early in the morning, and had subsequently been late for work and chastised by Mrs. Reynolds. Her warning had been so severe that Beatrice seriously considered going back to the station and taking the next train to Indianapolis.

But like the coward she was, she stayed in New York, going about her life with a peculiar dullness. Work took up most of her time, and she spent many extra hours at the factory, staying straight from opening until closing time most days. She didn't like going back to Steve's empty apartment—it felt much larger in his absence, and this time there was no one to distract her from nightmares or make her laugh. Weekends were the worst—although Beatrice spent a few Saturdays with Angie and Gary, going to a movie or having lunch at the automat, it was difficult not to feel out of place when she was so obviously a third wheel, even when Angie made the effort to include her. Her life had become strangely empty since the boys' departure, as if she was operating on autopilot. Beatrice often found herself wondering what she had done for fun and companionship before she met Steve and Bucky, although the brutally honest answer was probably nothing.

But it wasn't just missing the boys that tugged at her heartstrings. It was the promise of doing something new, something exciting that was like nothing else she had ever done before. Beatrice felt that her life was in stasis, as if she was doomed to spend it in New York working and sleeping until either disease or old age killed her. Going to Indiana would have been a completely new experience; something that might even have changed the life of a city girl like her. She had received several telegrams from both of them, all saying that they were doing well and the farm was worlds apart from Brooklyn. According to Bucky, they would be back within a month—by the end of May at the very latest, depending on how long it took the lawyers to process George and Winifred's will and work out matters concerning the estate and division of possessions. It was only halfway into their trip and Beatrice was feeling more alone than she had in her life, save for when John died and she was left alone with Henry. Now her brother was five thousand miles away, along with the only other family member she had left. Or perhaps it wasn't being alone that she minded—due to her father's alcoholism and her mother's long working hours, she'd had to become self-sufficient at a young age—it was being lonely. She missed Steve and Bucky. She missed Steve's crooked grin, the way he would crease up his eyebrows and frown intently when he was concentrating on a drawing, the quiet comfort his presence brought her even if he didn't speak any words aloud. She missed Bucky's smirk and the way his voice sounded when he called her Rosie. She missed the way she felt around him—as if her heart had suddenly turned itself inside out in the most pleasurable way. Beatrice honestly couldn't say which of the boys she missed the most. She just wanted Steve to open the front door and come tumbling inside, Bucky on his heels, while they teased each other like a pair of school-age boys. Steve would pull out the chessboard and Beatrice would happily keep score as Bucky made his vodka-laced hot chocolate. Although it was May and the last of the cold weather had finally disappeared, betraying the sweltering, sticky summer to come, Beatrice wouldn't have minded a hot drink if it meant that Bucky was there. Angie said she was "head over heels" crazy for him—still thinking she meant Steve—and Beatrice didn't have the heart to correct her. She wasn't even sure she wanted to, anyway.

On a warm, sunny morning eighteen days after the boys' departure, Beatrice was standing in front of the vanity in her bedroom, teasing out the knots in her hair with a fine-toothed comb as she got ready for work. She was already dressed in her uniform and predictably running late, having overslept after not getting home until midnight. For someone who was hell-bent on her employees following the rules, Mrs. Reynolds sure was lenient when it came to letting them work overtime. But she wouldn't be sympathetic to Beatrice's plight; it had been her own choice to work late, after all.

A loud knock at the front door caused Beatrice to jump and drop her comb in fright; it bounced off the vanity before clattering loudly to the floor. For a hopeful second, she wondered if Steve was back—but he wouldn't be knocking at his own door. Beatrice's heart sank in disappointment as she retrieved the comb and tossed it back onto the vanity as she hurried out of the room. If anything, maybe one of the neighbors needed something. At least if she was going to be late anyway, she might as well do it properly.

But the face that met her at the door was neither Steve's nor the neighbors'—it was the detective she had met at the Barnes's house the morning after Pryce's death, the one who had seemed more interested in his coffee than her. At first Beatrice thought that he hadn't gotten all of the information he needed from her and wanted to speak to her again, but as it turned out, the truth was much worse.

"Miss Hartley," he said with a curt nod, and flashed his identification badge at her. "You may remember me—my name is Detective Connelly."

"I remember," Beatrice replied; it came out sounding more like a question than an acknowledgement. The detective was giving her his full attention now. She involuntarily held her breath, waiting for him to explain why he wanted to talk to her again.

Connelly glanced from side to side, as if making sure that no one was within earshot—Beatrice knew she should invite him inside, but her feet were frozen in place—before telling her, "I promised to contact you if there were any more leads in the Pryce case that my colleagues and myself felt were fit to follow up on. As it turns out, a prime one has just lent itself to us."

Beatrice was gripping the doorknob so hard she feared the old wood would fall apart in her hands. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't quite follow," she said, trying her best to sound as polite as possible.

Connelly's face was completely serious as he replied, "There has been another murder in Bushwick."

Beatrice was slow on the uptake, and only blinked confusedly at him until he elaborated. "Miss Hartley," he said, speaking very slowly as if he was talking to a small child, "Were you in contact with a Mrs. Gloria Banner living at the tenement building that used to be owned by Pryce?"

She could only nod.

"She was found dead this morning," Connelly explained. Beatrice went numb with shock. "There were no signs of a struggle and as she had numerous existing health conditions, everything points to a natural death. However, some of the other tenants did report they heard her talking to someone last night. They thought she was on the phone, but there were no telephones present in any of the rooms during our investigation. One of the witnesses told us she said your name. Beatrice Hartley."

"Me?" Beatrice stuttered. Her mouth was very dry. She felt as if her brain was having trouble processing what the detective was telling her.

Connelly nodded gravely. He looked almost pitying. "It is, of course, entirely possible that she could have simply been talking to herself, but this is the second unexplainable death to occur this month in the area."

A horrible suspicion was beginning to dawn on Beatrice, and it took her several tries before she was able to croak out, "You…you don't think that  _I_ was responsible for them, do you? Sir?"

The detective suddenly laughed, his expression losing some of its solemnity. Beatrice felt her entire body relax. It was clear to him that a girl of her age and stature, barely five feet tall, couldn't possibly overpower an elderly woman, much less a grown man. "No, of course not," he said. "Several of my colleagues wanted to bring you in for questioning, but I do not think that is necessary. As you were present when her landlord was killed, we thought you may have some knowledge that could be useful to us."

"I—I don't," Beatrice said. The world was beginning to spin, and she forced herself to stay present. "I wish I did, though. I knew Mrs. Banner well. I am very sorry to hear of her death."

The detective hooked his thumbs in his belt and watched her closely. "I do not wish to alarm you, Miss Hartley, but until this matter clears, I would advise you to stay elsewhere. It is possible that someone has a vendetta against the tenants of that particular building. Although you do not live there anymore, Mrs. Banner did know of your new address. We will keep an eye on you, as you are a potential candidate for the next victim, if indeed there will be one at all."

_The next victim._

There was a low roaring in Beatrice's ears as she listened to his words. Mrs. Banner, dead because of her. Pryce, dead because of her. But who would be after her? She could think of no enemies she had made, at least none who would be liable to murder those she only had the faintest connections to.

Unless someone was after her to get to Ivan.

Her heart dropped like a stone and she struggled to get her mouth around the next words, realizing that Connelly was waiting for a response. "I—I don't know if that will be necessary, sir," she choked. The police couldn't watch her all the time—besides, she had a feeling that keeping her safe was only part of the reason why they wanted to watch her. No matter what he said, Connelly was still suspicious of her—how could he not be? Even if she didn't look the part of a murderer, she was clearly connected to both of them. And the police force in Brooklyn was widely known to be loyal to the highest bidder.

Connelly smiled thinly. "That wasn't a question, Miss Hartley."

* * *

Beatrice didn't think that she had ever been in such a shocked state in her life. The news of Mrs. Banner's death, and the implication that  _she_ might be the reason behind it, continued to haunt her long after Connelly had left. She started at every insignificant sound and felt disoriented, as if she wasn't completely awake. She continued to get ready for work, going about the routine as if it could possibly bring normality back into her life. When there was another knock at the door, she felt like she was going to faint—but it was just the telegram boy, bringing the news that Bucky and Steve would be returning to New York in another two weeks, on the thirty-first of May. It only caused Beatrice to worry even more—would she be bringing danger to the boys as well? The thought of anyone going after either of them to get to her made her feel sick.

She had no idea herself why she even went to the factory that day—she took the streetcar instead of her bicycle and kept glancing over her shoulder as if she would suddenly be staring down the barrel of a gun—but when she walked in an hour late and came face-to-face with a livid Mrs. Reynolds, she knew it was finally over.

"Miss Hartley," the older woman said when she met her at the entrance, her voice very cold, "I regret to inform you that you no longer work at this factory."

"What?" Beatrice asked dumbly, as a dozen or so women on the nearest assembly lines turned to watch the conversation.

"Exactly what I said," Mrs. Reynolds replied. She stood like a barrier in front of Beatrice, preventing her from going any farther into the room. "You have been late for work one too many times, not counting the days you simply did not show up and failed to provide an adequate explanation for your absences."

"But—I was talking to the police—"

"I do not care whether you were talking to the police or the president," Mrs. Reynolds said, and turned away from her, finality in her voice. "I have no patience for tardiness. You are no longer an employee here."

Beatrice's mouth fell open, and she continued to protest, but it was no use—Mrs. Reynolds was already walking away. Angry and humiliated, she averted her eyes from the pitying looks she was receiving and simply turned and walked out the door back into the bright sunshine.  _This can't be happening,_ was the only thought that ran through her head. Any minute she would wake up to find Mrs. Banner alive and well and that she herself still had a job…

"Beatrice!" she heard Angie call after her. Beatrice paused at the gate to wait for her friend, who ran up to her, unaware that she was risking being laid off herself by following. "I heard what happened in there. You can't let Reynolds fire you!" she hissed. "There must be something you can do—"

"There isn't, Angie," Beatrice said with a heavy sigh, shaking her head. She knew it was pointless to try to convince Mrs. Reynolds otherwise; besides, if there really  _was_ someone after her, she would be putting everyone at the factory in danger. "I'm sorry."

Angie looked as if she was about to continue arguing, but something in Beatrice's expression stopped her. "You're the only reason I stayed at that hellhole," she said, trying to cheer her up. "Maybe I'll quit and try to get onto Broadway instead."

Beatrice forced herself to smile. "I really hope so, Angie. I'll be the first in line to buy a ticket, all right?"

"You better," Angie said, and threw her lanky arms around Beatrice, who hugged her back. When she drew back, Beatrice added, "Please don't quit on account of me. I'd feel terrible if you did."

"God, don't be so dramatic," scoffed Angie, waving a dismissive hand. "Maybe  _you_  ought to be the one on Broadway. Listen, sunshine, stop blaming yourself for everything."

"I'll try," said Beatrice, and the two girls shared another smile before she reluctantly turned her back on Angie and the factory, heading to the streetcar stop. But instead of taking the south trolley that would bring her back to Flatbush, she went to the one that led straight into Manhattan.

* * *

"Well, this is certainly a problem, isn't it?" Howard Stark asked. He looked uncharacteristically serious.

They weren't in his private office this time, but in a conference room on the tower's main level, with Howard seated at the front of the long, rounded table and Beatrice and Erskine at the other end. Beatrice had found Erskine at Stark Industries, and after explaining to him what Detective Connelly had told her that morning, he brought her straight to Howard himself. Unfortunately, Beatrice didn't feel any safer with them—she kept glancing nervously at the door, afraid it would burst open any second. She knew she was just moments away from having another nervous breakdown, and this time Bucky wasn't there to calm her.

"I know it might not mean anything," Beatrice said, wringing her hands in her lap, "But I'm scared that they'll come after me and…and the people I care about."

"Which is a very logical reaction to have," said Howard, completely straight-faced. He turned to Erskine, who was watching her thoughtfully. "Do you think it could be Hydra?" he asked.

"What's Hydra?" Beatrice said before Erskine could reply. She remembered Bucky asking about it when they had first visited Ivan's house, and her uncle's ambiguous answer.

"Hydra is the Nazi deep science division," Howard answered for him. "Some believe that it's overseen by Hitler himself. The SSR—that's us—is made up of the best Allied minds in the world, including your uncle, and our aim is to stop them from wiping out half of this planet."

Beatrice struggled to wrap her mind around the concept. "But…but why would this Hydra be after me? I've never done anything…"

The two men exchanged a long, telling look. "Maybe  _you've_ never done anything," said Howard. "But Ivan certainly has, and he's made a lot of enemies. All it takes is one of them to make the connection between you two, which became much easier when you started to visit him regularly."

"We can move her to a safe house outside of the city," Erskine suggested, wiping a smudge of dirt off his glasses. "Somewhere they won't be able to track her."

"Or promote her to a full-fledged member of the SSR," Howard said, seeming taken by the idea. "She already knows about us, anyway."

Erskine looked concerned. "But is it wise to uproot her from her home just because of the possibility of a threat?"

Beatrice, who disliked the way they were talking about her as if she wasn't present, chimed in with, "I'll do whatever it takes to make sure my friends are safe. If that means moving, I'll do it."

"God, you sound exactly like Ivan," remarked Howard. He grinned at her. "My earlier offer still stands: how would you like to join the Army Nurse Corps? You've already volunteered and undergone some training. Now you just need to learn how to work in a combat zone and you'll be set. I know it sounds backwards, but it's the safest place for you right now. If Hydra really  _is_ after you, they'll never think that you've gone all the way to Europe."

"In the middle of the deadliest war humanity has ever known," Erskine said dryly. "We promised Ivan we wouldn't get her caught up in all of this."

"Well, it looks like it's too late, isn't it?" Howard shot back. "Besides, if she agrees, he can't do anything."

Beatrice's mind was racing a mile a minute. She didn't want to leave New York—didn't want to leave Bucky and Steve, but wouldn't she be separated from Bucky soon, anyway? And she wouldn't be able to live with herself knowing that she was willingly putting Steve in danger. And now that Mrs. Reynolds had fired her, she was under no obligations to stay anywhere in particular. But the most compelling reason was that she  _had_ wanted, once upon a time, to do exactly what Howard was suggesting and become a nurse on the front lines. There was nothing holding her back now except for the boys, and soon one of them would be on the front lines himself. After barely a minute of deliberation, Beatrice spoke again. "I'll do it. I'll become a nurse," she said rashly. "It will keep my friends safe, and it's what I've always wanted to do, anyway."

Howard beamed at her, looking triumphant. "I knew I would eventually wear you down. No one gets through that recruitment process with a simple passing interest. Listen, you go to Camp Lehigh for a few weeks, they'll give you a refresher course, and I can get you a place on the  _Queen Mary_  leaving on the first of June."

"Are you sure you want to do this, Beatrice?" asked Erskine. He still looked unsure.

"It's the only way to keep everyone safe," Beatrice said firmly, hoping to reassure herself as much as Erskine. "Besides…I've always wanted to be a nurse."

* * *

**Shelbyville, Indiana**

The forest that lay behind the Barnes's family farm on the outskirts of Shelbyville covered nearly ten acres of land, and the animals that roamed it—from ducks to rabbits to deer—made up a large percentage of the family's meals. Hunting was much less expensive than going all the way into town to visit the butcher's, but to those who weren't familiar with the sport it was difficult and time-consuming, as Ernest was quickly finding out. He and Bucky had been sent to bring home that night's meal, and of course Steve insisted on joining them. Ernest had wanted to impress Rebecca by catching a deer on his own, but it soon became clear that he was better suited to looking handsome in hunting gear with a rifle slung over his shoulder than actually hunting. They had caught the trail of a stag heading north, and Ernest was in the lead, snapping branches and making his presence known to the entire forest. Steve and Bucky were a ways behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible.

"At this rate we'll never get anything for supper," Ernest was complaining. When neither of the others responded, he called, "James? Steven? Are either of you even listening to me?"

Bucky, who was wearing his customary expression of annoyance whenever Ernest was around, suddenly stopped walking and motioned for Steve to do the same.

"Why did we stop?" Steve asked, though he looked relieved to be taking a break.

"We'll never find it again with Proctor stomping around like an elephant," Bucky said. "If we stay here there's a better chance of it running from him straight to us."

Unable to argue with this logic, Steve continued, "So what do we do now?"

"Wait," Bucky said simply. A tree branch snapped from somewhere ahead of them, and he put a finger to his lips, quickly shushing him as the other boy made to speak again.

Ernest's shout echoed through the woods. "Barnes! Stop daydreaming about your girl and get over here!"

A muscle in Bucky's jaw twitched. "One shot is all it would take," he muttered. "He wouldn't feel a thing. Becca would find a new fiancé soon enough."

"Buck," Steve chastised, although his lips twitched. "He's harmless."

Bucky raised his eyebrows and shot his best friend a sideways glance—it wasn't often that Steve was the one to talk  _him_ down. "Yeah, well, he's not marrying  _your_ little sister," he said darkly.

Steve was silent for a moment, shuffling from foot to foot as if he was deliberating his next words, before saying, "Were you thinking about Beatrice?"

Bucky's head snapped around at her name. "What makes you think that Proctor was talking about her?" he asked, almost defensively. "It could have been Connie."

"Does he even know that Connie exists?" Steve replied evenly. "Beatrice is the only girl you talk about."

Bucky was suddenly very interested in examining his rifle. "Listen, Connie knows we're not going steady," he said. "I promised to take her to the World Expo and that was it. She's seeing other guys too."

"That's not what I asked, Buck," Steve said. "I asked if you were thinking about Beatrice."

"What's it to you, punk?" Bucky asked, gently shoving Steve's shoulder. "You wanna become a shrink or something?"

"No," Steve retorted, although his ears were red. He looked as if he now regretted ever bringing up the subject. "It's just—you've never acted this way about any old dame. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you like this at all."

"Like what?"

Steve spluttered at being put on the spot. "Just so—different. You're always talking about her. You go into town every morning to see if she's sent you a telegram. I've actually seen you unsure of yourself when she's around."

"So I'm turning into you, basically," Bucky said, with a smirk. When Steve didn't grin back, he sighed. "Don't get me wrong, Connie's a great gal. I have a lot of fun with her. But she's not Rosie."

Steve took a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn't look at Bucky as he spoke. "Yesterday Rebecca told me—"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "So  _she_  put you up to this. I should have known."

The blond boy still looked pained. "She thinks you're in love with Beatrice," Steve said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

Bucky stopped in the middle of a retort, his mouth hanging open. When his normally quick-witted friend didn't answer right away, Steve asked quietly, "Are you?"

"I don't know," Bucky said at once. "Maybe. Yes."

Steve raised an eyebrow. Bucky looked away from him. "I can't stop thinking about her," he admitted.

"Rebecca said that your parents knew how you felt."

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair. "God, of course they did. They liked her more than any other girl I brought home."

"Well, you never did introduce her as  _your_  girl." Steve leaned against a nearby tree and examined his friend closely, whose normally neat hair was unkempt and messy after running his hands multiple times through it.

"That's because she isn't," Bucky said vehemently; Steve had rarely seen him this flustered. He suddenly turned on him. "Who else knows about this? Does  _she_ know?"

"I have no idea," Steve answered. "Ask her on a date. You've never hesitated before."

But Bucky was shaking his head agitatedly. "She's not like the rest. This is different, Steve. What if she says no? Has she told you anything? You know her better than I do."

"She'll say yes, Buck," Steve assured him, rather gloomily. "How could she not?"

Bucky looked only mildly relieved. The corner of Steve's mouth turned up in an involuntary grin. "Good thing I didn't take her to the hospital, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky replied. He took a closer look at Steve and frowned. "Hey, are you okay?" he asked. "You look kinda—"

But he never got to finish. In response to some invisible signal, his head whipped around and he stared at something Steve couldn't see. His rifle was already in position, and his silent instruction to be quiet was evident. He crouched down so that he was nearly hidden in the bramble and peered through the scope. Steve had absolutely no idea what he was looking at, and after a tense thirty seconds, the rifle fired once, the sound shattering the stillness and sending a swarm of birds out of the nearest trees.

Bucky slowly straightened up, the rifle back at his side and his face unreadable. He began to walk in the direction he'd fired the shot, Steve still not daring to speak. Fifty feet out, the stag they had been chasing for a better part of an hour lay on the grass; the shot had been so precise that it was killed instantly. The bullet hole was directly in the middle of its forehead.

"That was amazing," Steve said, awed and with a hint of jealousy lacing his tone. "I didn't even know it was there. Must be something they teach you in the army."

"Must be," said Bucky, without emotion. He nodded at the carcass. "Grab the front legs, will you? We'll take it back to the farm. Ernest will find his way back eventually."

"Very generous of you," a third voice said, and Ernest himself suddenly appeared, shoving aside low-hanging branches. His boots were stained with mud and his gear was streaked with dirt and grass, as if he had tripped and fallen several times. His eyebrows raised when he saw the deer. "You're a good shot, James," he admitted grudgingly.

"When I have to be," Bucky said grimly. He grabbed the animal's hind legs and lifted it up as Steve took hold of the front, carrying the stag between them. Ernest flailed around uselessly, looking for some way to help.

"I didn't know where you were until I heard the shot," he said, disgruntled. "You two were trying to get me lost on purpose."

"Maybe," said Bucky. He and Steve shared a glance over the deer. It would be slow work hauling it out of the forest and back to the farm, but it was better than bringing home nothing.

"I do have one request, if you don't mind," Ernest said almost sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He gave Bucky's rifle an envious look. "Can I tell Becca that I did it?"


	15. XV

The building that housed the nurse's barracks at Camp Lehigh was separated into two groups: those who were just starting out their accelerated eight-week course of basic training, and those who had already completed the schooling and were being trained in wartime and combat nursing. Since Beatrice had already taken the basic training the first time she'd had ambitions to become a nurse, she was placed in the latter group. From there it was split into another three groups: those who would be posted at military hospitals in Allied countries, like England and Australia; the flight and navy nurses who would be working on airplanes and ships; and finally, those who would be working in field and evacuation hospitals closest to the front lines.

It was no surprise to Beatrice that she was being sent to the European Theater, but when she'd received notice that she was going to be serving in a field hospital, she had admittedly been taken aback. But there were only so many strings Howard could pull, and if she was in a place that was constantly moving it would be difficult for someone to find her—if they were even looking for her. During the weeks she had been at Camp Lehigh, there had been no suspicious activity around Steve's tenement, and no more deaths in Bushwick, as Erskine had told her when he'd once visited. Sometimes she wondered if she had jumped into this too quickly, spurred on by the guilt of the two murders, the loss of her job, and the absence of Steve and Bucky. She often lay awake at night with crushing guilt over Mrs. Banner's death and what information she might have given the murderer about Beatrice. But if Howard's theory was correct and this Hydra was after her, were they after Ivan, too? Was Henry safe? What if Steve and Bucky were the next victims? Beatrice prayed that Mrs. Banner hadn't told them where she lived. Although she was sure that she could have gotten special permission to attend the funeral, she had been too guilt-ridden to attend. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed training so much—there was no time for any worrying. Her mind was always occupied.

At first, Beatrice even began to feel embarrassed that she'd overreacted and begged to be sent away, but as time went on she found that she actually enjoyed the rigor and work of military training—which included not only intense lessons in military nursing and medicine, but in map-reading, physical endurance, sanitation, camouflage, and how to set up field hospitals complete with operating and recovery rooms. The strict schedule and intensive training invigorated rather than drained her; she had forgotten how much she wanted to become a nurse. At any rate, she was much happier at the military base than she ever had been at either Lloyd's Dental or the factory at the Navy Yard.

Although the camp was only in New Jersey, barely an hour's drive from Brooklyn, it was still foreign territory to Beatrice. The uninterrupted darkness of the night still captivated her, and everything was eerily quiet as the base was surrounded by forest on all sides. She liked to steal outside at night and listen to the crickets chirping and owls hooting. The sheer number of stars and constellations that could be seen away from the city lights baffled her. Sometimes she caught herself wondering if this was what it would be like if she'd gone to Indiana with Steve and Bucky.

She had spent the majority of her free time—what little free time they had—agonizing over what to tell them. They returned to New York the day before she shipped out, and she had no idea how they'd react to the news of her leaving. Of course she would warn them to be on the lookout for anything that might relate to the Bushwick murders, but she also hoped they wouldn't be angry at her for deciding to leave on such short notice. Then again, if she hadn't met Steve and Bucky, she would have probably decided on it a long time ago. If it really  _was_ Hydra that was following her, like Howard seemed to think, she wanted them to know that she was going to travel far away from New York so they would leave the people there alone.

The other nurse trainees at the camp were all friendly with each other, although Beatrice had become close with three of them in particular—Diana Murphy, Caroline Goodall and Ruth MacGregor. They were usually kept separated from the male recruits, but it was always better to walk in groups so if they came across a group of young G.I.'s they would have less of a chance of being singled out and catcalled. On her first day at the camp, Beatrice and a dozen other nurses had been crossing from their barracks to the mess hall when a group of new recruits had ridden by and tried to pull them into their jeep. Diana had screamed bloody murder at them and threatened to tell the colonel—who was the very Chester Phillips she'd often heard Erskine and Howard mention. She was seconds away from taking off her shoe and physically throwing it at them before Beatrice, Caroline and Ruth had been the ones to pull her away and calm her down, thus beginning a camaraderie. Diana was from Los Angeles, a beautiful, outspoken girl who regaled them with tales of movie stars she had met and trysts she'd with actors, although Beatrice couldn't help but feel many of them were exaggerated. Caroline was from Detroit and the oldest at twenty-seven. Ruth was from Boston, a shy girl even quieter than Beatrice. Beatrice herself was the only one from New York and the youngest. She liked her new friends very much, but she did miss Angie, and resolved to write her a letter as soon as she set foot in Europe.

Beatrice couldn't help but feel out of place with the other women. They had all been selected by the SSR because they were exceptional nurses—whether they were utterly calm and collected in a crisis, like Ruth, or had a brilliant mind, like Diana, or who knew more about medicine and anesthesia than most doctors did, like Caroline. They had all risen to the tops of their respective schools and from there had caught the SSR's attention. Beatrice had only been selected because of her connections and because she only passed the bare minimum of what was required to become an army nurse. None of the others had ever mentioned anything about it, but it still caused her a great deal of self-consciousness.

Today was the last day of training and that morning's lesson, or "final test", as the women called it, had consisted of a mock emergency situation with plastic dummies taking the place of wounded soldiers. The classroom had been set up to resemble a field hospital's tent, with gurneys instead of tables and real operating equipment. The room had been pumped full of artificial fog to give the appearance of smoke—another invention courtesy of Howard Stark—and they had all been required to wear masks. Beatrice suspected that the timing of the exercise—right when a large group of G.I.'s were being trained at the firing range nearby—wasn't a coincidence, as the sound of guns right outside the door was certainly nerve-wracking, even if they weren't in any real danger.

The nurses had gone in several at a time, and they'd all had ten minutes to tend to as many soldiers as possible while the colonel watched. One of the dummies Beatrice had been assigned to looked as if it had been shot right in the stomach, red paint spilling out of its mouth. It was too similar to Pryce for her liking. But she had somehow managed to do her rounds and forget about the pressure while every other unnecessary thought vanished into the back of her mind. She was out of breath and panting by the time her ten minutes were up, but she had managed to bandage up every mannequin on her side of the room and even give one crude stitches. Phillips had examined her work and given her a tiny nod and a grunt of acknowledgement, which, Diana told her later, was as close to approval as she would ever get from him.

After a hasty lunch, the women had returned to their barracks to pack their things before the train arrived to take them back to New York. Although Beatrice had enjoyed the training in a grueling yet satisfying way, she was particularly looking forward to a hot bath and cooked food, unlike the army rations she'd had to choke down for two weeks. Apparently the food on the front lines was worse, or so she was told: she didn't think that hot water with strange substances floating in it counted as soup, or chunks of stale bread that resembled rocks counted as food.

Beatrice, Ruth and Caroline had already changed back into their civilian clothes. She smoothed out her white ward dress and picked up the cap with a bright red cross emblazoned on it. When the nurses were off-duty, they were instructed to wear their SSR uniforms—an olive drab service jacket, with a matching skirt and brown shoes. An SSR pin was fastened proudly to each lapel of their jackets. Beatrice always felt out of place wearing it, as if she was just playing at being a nurse.

"Does anyone know where Di is?" Caroline asked, lounging on her cot. Ruth, whose face was screwed up in concentration as she struggled to close her suitcase, shrugged and glanced over at Beatrice, who said, "She left right after the lesson. I didn't see her at lunch."

"And her things are still here," Caroline sighed, peering over the edge of the top bunk to Diana's bed below hers. "If she's not back by the time we leave, I'll have to take it or Colonel Phillips will have a fit."

"Maybe he'll give you extra points if you revive him," Beatrice suggested. Caroline tossed a balled-up sock at her.

Ruth looked up from her luggage and peered out the dirty window. "I think I just saw her run by," she said.

Sure enough, the door to the barracks burst open a moment later and Diana ran in, red-faced and still in her uniform. She was waving around four envelopes. "I got our embarkation notices!" she exclaimed, tossing them in the direction of the other three.

"I thought we were supposed to get these on our way out," Caroline said, frowning at her.

"Yeah, I nicked them from Phillips's office," Diana said with a shrug. "Anyway, open them!"

While Caroline chastised her for being reckless, Beatrice cautiously picked up the envelope addressed to her. The letter was stuffed haphazardly inside, as if it had been folded and re-folded again. "It looks like you've already taken them out," she said to Diana, who was shameless as always.

"Since you lot are taking so long, I guess I should inform you that we've all been placed together at the field hospital," she said happily. "Same tent and everything!"

Although Beatrice knew that she would be shipping out the very next day on the _Queen Mary_ , the official notice still sent waves of trepidation through her. She scanned the letter quickly; she was due at the harbor at exactly seven o'clock the following morning to board the ship. From there it would be a ten-day journey to Southampton, after which they would be boarding another ship that would sail them across the English Channel over to Normandy where they would arrive at the 107th Field Hospital about thirty miles behind the front lines. It wasn't officially run by the SSR, although many nurses and doctors there were affiliated with the agency. Beatrice was beyond grateful that she would be with people she knew—it would bring welcome familiarity to the situation. In just twenty-four hours, she would be on a ship with thousands of other people in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Of course Beatrice had always known what she would be doing, but somehow seeing it in print made it more official. Judging by the expressions on the others' faces, they felt exactly the same way.

The piercing whistle of the train greeted them not long afterwards, and after waiting for Diana to hurriedly change back into her civilian clothes and pack her things, they made their way to the station a quarter of a mile out. They trailed behind the other nurses, having been late waiting for her, and as Beatrice was about to leap onto the train she heard her name being called.

"Nurse Hartley!"

It was the first time anyone had addressed her in that manner, and she was taken aback for a moment. After hastily searching the crowd, she spotted Colonel Phillips standing at the edge of the platform and she quickly hurried over to him, saluting when she came to a halt.

"Colonel," she greeted him.

His expression was unreadable as he said, "Erskine asked me to give this to you." He handed her a plain manila envelope. Beatrice took it, stunned and slightly ashamed: so he  _did_ know who she was.

"Thank you, sir," she said.

Phillips regarded her with a critical eye. "I was wary about letting you into my camp at first. I'll be honest, I just did it to placate Stark as we do need his funding, but if Hydra is after you you're going to need training. And your work this morning was admittedly acceptable." He inclined his head to her. "Good luck in Europe, Second Lieutenant Hartley, and welcome to the SSR."

Beatrice blinked at him until he turned away, silently dismissing her, and she quickly saluted his retreating back again before rushing onto the train. The girls were all going in different directions: her to Brooklyn, Caroline to Staten Island, Ruth to Newark and Diana to the Bronx, but they all agreed to meet up the next morning at seven o'clock. When she was sure no one was watching her she opened up the letter. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Ivan's handwriting:

_Dear Beatrice,_

_I hope you will forgive the appalling belatedness of this letter, but I had to be sure that we were completely safe before finding an SSR agent to pass this along to, as traditional mail is now censored._

_As Howard has no doubt informed you, we have arrived in Stalingrad. Although the city is still recovering from the battle of last year, it is as stable as it has been in a long time. Henry is doing well and Luisa is always surprised at how fast he is growing. I have enclosed a picture for you._

_I hope that you are doing well in New York—although Howard has also taken the liberty to inform me that you will not be there for much longer. For if Hydra truly is after you because of me, I want to tell you that I am deeply, deeply sorry, both for you and for the deaths of those you knew. But since you are in the care of the SSR they will do their best to make sure that you and your friends are safe at all times. It is with a heavy heart that I write this paragraph. I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me in time, as you are perfectly within your rights not to. If you wish to respond to this letter, please give your response to an SSR agent rather than mailing it, as there are eyes and ears everywhere. Let us hope that the war will end soon for all of our sakes._

_Sincerely,_

_Ivan_

A picture fluttered out of the envelope, and although it was grainy, she could clearly see Henry sitting on a patch of grass, a smile on his face as he beamed at the camera—his teeth were already coming in.

Beatrice smiled the entire ride home.

* * *

Unfortunately, her relief at receiving word from her uncle and knowing that he, Henry and Luisa were safe was short-lived. As soon as she hopped off the streetcar and stared up at the tenement building, she felt that familiar rush of gut-wrenching anxiety again. Her heart was pounding fast; whether it was from the prospect of seeing Steve and Bucky again, or telling them what she had been doing while they were away, she couldn't tell. Were they home yet? She couldn't remember what time Bucky had said their train was coming in; her brain had suddenly turned into scrambled eggs.

Squaring her shoulders, Beatrice climbed up the short flight of stairs that led to Steve's flat and reached into her suitcase to fumble with her key. She stopped in surprise when she heard footsteps on the other side, the door was thrown open, and she was suddenly staring up into Bucky's face. Her knees turned to jelly.

"Rosie!" he exclaimed. His voice was so warm and familiar that Beatrice felt as if he hadn't been gone at all. And then his arms were suddenly around her and he pulled her into a tight hug. Beatrice was so startled that she dropped her suitcase, her nose mashed against his chest. And then something in her brain clicked and she was hugging him back, his body solid and comforting. All of her worries and fear suddenly disappeared when his arms were around her.

The hug was far too short and Beatrice felt slightly light-headed and giddy when he pulled away. She greedily studied his face, half-afraid he would disappear again. "Steve's been staring out the window waiting for you," he said, with that smirk that made Beatrice's heart flutter all over again.

"He's lying, Beatrice," a mild voice said from behind him, and Steve walked up to her, smiling almost shyly. "He's been looking up and down the street for hours."

Not wanting him to feel left out, Beatrice laughed and wrapped her arms around Steve. He stiffened slightly in shock but quickly returned the hug, his face bright red when she pulled back. "We've been home since this morning but we figured you were at work," he explained, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face.

Beatrice's smile disappeared as she stared at them. Bucky's sleeves were pulled up to his elbows and he had a tan, as if he'd spent a lot of time outside in the sun. While Steve was as pale as ever, she thought she saw a few lighter streaks in his normally dirty blond hair. They had spent time outside, all right. She wondered if she looked the same way. "Yeah," she finally said, realizing they were waiting for her response. Technically, nursing was her job now. "I was at work."

"Why'd you bring your suitcase to work?" Bucky teased. "You should have come with us, Rosie. Becca would have loved to have you there. Oh, by the way, she and Ernest are getting married next Saturday, on the fifth."

"Oh, great," Beatrice said in a small voice, staring intently at the floor. _That's four days too late for me._  Her unenthusiasm rivaled only Bucky's, who was too busy looking annoyed by the news to notice. Clearly he and Ernest hadn't become best friends on the trip. Steve, however, was looking intently at her, and Beatrice quickly avoided his gaze.

Just as she was wondering whether or not to get it over with and just spit it out to them, there was a loud knock at the door. Beatrice jumped, heart in her throat and a thousand terrifying scenarios racing through her mind. "Don't open it!" she nearly shrieked, her voice edging up into hysteria. She was already thinking of windows they could escape through if necessary.

Bucky frowned. "Why not?" he asked her, pausing halfway to the door. Beatrice's hand had automatically reached up to clutch her chest like some heroine in a ten-cent romance novel. Steve, too, looked concerned.

It took her a moment before her heart stopped pounding in her ears and she was able to get her wits about her again. "Oh, nothing," she said, realizing that a murderer wouldn't knock on the door of a crowded tenement in the middle of the afternoon to announce their presence. "I just…I've been kind of startled after being here alone for so long," she lied. "That's all."

Steve still looked puzzled, but he went ahead to open the door while Bucky crossed the room to stand next to her. He probably didn't mean anything by the gesture, but Beatrice couldn't help but think of it as a protective presence. She badly wanted to lean into him and feel the rough material of his coat again, but clenched her jaw and refused to look directly at him in case her pretenses crumbled.

As it turned out, the person at the door wasn't a Hydra agent at all, but an elderly man whom Steve often chatted to despite his grumpiness. Apparently he hadn't gotten his newspaper that day and wanted Steve to give him one, even though it was clear Steve hadn't been doing much delivering papers lately.

"Of course, Mr. Jackson," he said, shrugging on his jacket. "I don't have them with me, but I can run down to the store and fetch you one."

Bucky, who was clearly irritated at the way Mr. Jackson was treating Steve, shook his head and drew his forefinger across his throat in a universal gesture to stop, but the stubborn Steve wasn't having any of it. "I might as well," he said. "I need to buy another nebulizer anyway."

"What happened to your old one?" Bucky asked suspiciously.

Steve was suddenly very interested in the floor. "Nothing," he said quickly. "I'll see you guys later." And with that, he was out the door. Beatrice called after him.

"Take my bicycle! Well, actually, it's your bicycle—oh, never mind," she sighed as the door closed behind him.

Bucky muttered something under his breath that Beatrice was glad she couldn't hear. "Maybe he sees himself in him," she remarked, walking over to the curtains and watching Steve awkwardly climb onto the bicycle and pedal down the street.

"Maybe he does," Bucky mused beside her. Beatrice jumped; she hadn't heard him ghost up to her. "He'll be one of those cranky old men who sits outside all day and yells at kids to get off his lawn."

Beatrice laughed despite herself. "I didn't know he could afford a nebulizer."

"He can't." Clearly, Bucky had paid for it.

"Then what happened to the old one?"

Bucky shrugged. "He probably left it somewhere thinking he wouldn't need it and forgot about it. He's always better away from here. Must be the clean air or something."

"Do you think he was a little  _too_ eager to leave?" Beatrice asked suspiciously.

"No more than usual," Bucky said. He was studying her so closely she felt as if her face was about to burst into flames from the intensity of his gaze. "Why?"

"Never mind," Beatrice said, forced to turn away from his stare. She ran her fingers lightly along the back of the couch, searching for something to do. "I guess I'd better go make supper for when he gets back," she said, half to herself. If Bucky stayed over, she would have to break the news to them then. Maybe they would take it better if they had food in their stomachs.

But as Beatrice moved to pick up her suitcase, Bucky's hand reached down to stop her, his fingers curling lightly around her wrist. Beatrice was certain he could feel her pulse fluttering madly. Their eyes met and locked; she swore the feel of his fingertips was branded into her skin. Why did such simple touches feel like so much more when they came from him?

He cleared his throat after a long moment had passed and suddenly let go, as if he hadn't realized he was still touching her. "Actually, I had other plans," he said, his voice not as suave as it usually was.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what might those be?"

His gray eyes were suddenly full of mischief; her heart turned over in her chest. "You'll see."

* * *

She ought to have guessed where he was taking her; he had done it once before, after all. Still, Beatrice couldn't stifle her surprise when she saw the brightly lit sign of the dance hall looming up ahead. She wrinkled her nose at Bucky, who smiled at her reaction but refused to be swayed. "I thought you wanted to ask Steve to dance someday," he gently teased her. "Besides, we never got to finish  _our_ dance."

 _Yes, but why today of all days?_ Beatrice wanted to ask. It had been four months since they had last been there. She remembered Bucky holding her close to him as they'd spun around the floor, the feel of his coat under her fingers and the bubbliness of the Coke as she'd sipped it; sensations more than memories now. She'd barely known him then, and yet they had never been as physically close together as they were on that night—save for when Bucky had had to carry her into his house.

She balked at the memory—not of Bucky but of the situation that had preceded it—and she forced herself back into the present as he held the door open for her. "Ladies first," he said, and there was that trademark smirk again. The weeks in Indiana had done him good; a bit of color was coming back into his face again, after he'd had time to remove himself from the city and grieve for his parents. Beatrice felt relief slowly unfurl in her stomach at this realization.

"Are you sure you haven't been drinking this time?" she asked him, only half-joking. His eyes widened slightly, but he shook his head.

"Scout's honor," he said, placing a solemn hand over his chest. Beatrice giggled, and he held out his arm for her to take. She didn't need any prompting to loop her own arm through his. Like the last time, they were hardly dressed in appropriate dancing attire, but she counted on the smoky atmosphere hiding any traces of their clothing.

And she was right; the hall was exactly as she had seen it last, with its wood paneling and tables scattered throughout the room and the bar at the back. There weren't quite as many couples there as she remembered—the war had taken care of that—but those that were present thankfully didn't pay them any attention, and there was no Connie in sight. Bucky led her along the wall to the bar again, although this time he led her over to a table rather than the stools. A white tablecloth was draped over it and a glass jar with a single rose immersed in water was placed in the middle. Beatrice stared at the floor, fighting the urge to smile.

"I take it you chose this table on purpose?" she asked Bucky, who suddenly looked too innocent.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, ducking his head and staring sheepishly up at her. He looked so boyish in that moment that Beatrice felt yet another rush of affection for him. "You want a Coke, right?"

"Actually," said Beatrice, making a split-second decision—she sure was making a lot of those lately—"I'll have a glass of wine, if you don't mind."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up, but he went to the bar anyway, where an old man with glasses and slicked-back hair was watching his approach. He winked conspiratorially at Beatrice when she caught his eye, and she turned away, blushing.

Her eyes landed on a poster taped to the wall opposite, its edges yellowed from months of cigarette smoke. A pretty woman in a nurse's uniform was staring tenderly down at an injured soldier lying on a bed, his head bandaged. SAVE HIS LIFE AND FIND YOUR OWN, it proclaimed in large block letters. Beatrice's previous happiness popped as if a bubble had burst, leaving her with an acidic taste in the back of her throat. She stared blankly down at the table until Bucky returned with their drinks. She downed hers at once, wincing as the too-sweet wine flooded her taste buds, but at least the unpleasant taste had left the back of her throat.

"So," Bucky began as he took her cue and also drank his wine in one swig, "What's a pretty gal like you doing in a place like this?"

She fidgeted with the tablecloth, very aware that the alcohol was turning her cheeks even redder. "I don't know," she admitted. "You'll have to ask the guy who brought me here."

"Must be a lucky fella," said Bucky. He was leaning closer to her now, their elbows almost touching. A strand of hair had fallen over his forehead, and Beatrice ached to reach up and tuck it back. "Getting to dance with you and all."

"Well," Beatrice murmured, hating the way her voice rose and cracked, "We haven't actually gotten to dance yet."

"Then shall we?" Bucky asked; unlike her, his voice had dropped until it was a low rumble. Beatrice nodded, unable to say another word. He rose from the table and walked over to her, stopping only to pluck the rose from its glass and gently tuck it behind her ear. His fingers brushed against her cheek and the shell of her ear: she sat perfectly still, not even daring to breathe, as his hand lingered on her for longer than what she thought was absolutely necessary.

"I don't think that was their intention for the rose," she said, almost breathlessly, as he wound his fingers from hers and pulled her to her feet. Whether or not it was the wine or Bucky himself that was making her feel loopy, Beatrice couldn't bring herself to care in the least.

"I don't think a rose is what they care about going missing from here, doll," he whispered. They were on the floor now, and Beatrice reached up to loop her arms around his neck without volition. His pupils were dilated; whether it was from the dim lighting or something else, she couldn't tell. His hands were on her waist now, holding her against him, but this time they didn't spin and glide around the dance floor: they stayed in one spot, swaying slightly from side to side. Glenn Miller was crooning in the background from the gramophone, but Beatrice couldn't have said what song it was if she'd been asked.

"Are you sure you're real?" she asked him, immediately regretting her words as soon as she said them. But she had to—she had to make sure this was actually happening—

Bucky's lips twitched. "As real as you are, Rosie," he said. "Why?"

She tried to look away from him, but he reached up a hand to catch her on the chin, gently turning her back towards him. Beatrice sighed and met his eyes, trying and failing to ignore the stutter of her heart. "This feels like a dream," she admitted.

"What does?"

"You and I…doing this…" She lifted her hand from his shoulder and gestured uselessly around them. "I never thought it would happen. Again."

She felt the steady thud of his heart pick up speed so that it was beating nearly as fast as her own. There was something very tender in his eyes now; a look she had never dared to think about directed at her. "Well, I had to do this once," he almost whispered. "Before…" Now it was his turn to trail off as his eyes traveled down to her lips.

Worried that there was something on them, Beatrice quickly took her hand off his shoulder, but Bucky stopped her for the second time that day and, before her incredulous eyes, brought her hand up to his mouth. Her heart stopped beating altogether as she felt the pressure of his lips against her fingers, the sudden drop in her heart rate making her dizzy. But that was the last thing she was thinking about. He dropped his gaze, and the brush of his eyelashes against her skin sent chills throughout her entire body all the way down to her toes.

"Bucky," she said, dimly—whether it was an exclamation or a question she wasn't sure. He dropped her hand and she felt cold at the loss of contact, silently imploring him to do it again.

"Rosie," he said. His voice croaked, and he cleared his throat. "Rosie…" he began again, but seemed unable to finish. Never had she seen him at such a loss. She could tell that he was surprised too, his mouth opening and closing as if he was trying to get the proper words out.

She tilted her head up toward him, curious and hoping for him to take her hand again, but his face was suddenly much closer than it had been a moment ago. She could see every tiny cut, every imperfection in his skin. The shape of his lips, the gray-blue of his eyes. A bomb could have dropped on the dance hall and she wouldn't have noticed. At some point they had stopped swaying and were now standing prone in the middle of the floor.

He bent his head and kissed her, gently, on either side of her mouth, sending tingles down her back before lifting his head slightly and meeting her eyes again, as if silently asking for permission. She knew they were as wide as saucers. But this was real life. She wasn't about to wake up.

And then Beatrice made the most unthinking decision in her string of recent unthinking decisions and kissed him on the mouth, forgetting that girls weren't supposed to initiate the first kiss, but she didn't care. He tasted like wine and train soot and  _Bucky_. If his essence could somehow be captured in a bottle, Beatrice would have happily been intoxicated on it for the rest of her life.

It didn't take long before she felt an answering pressure on her mouth, and Bucky's hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, pulling her closer. Beatrice's mouth opened under his. She felt light-headed and dizzy. Was this what it felt like to be drunk?

She'd forgotten that she was still able to breathe through her nose, and so drew back a moment later, gasping for air. Bucky leaned his forehead against hers, their mouths so close it was as if they were about to kiss again.

"I'm not very good at this," Beatrice whispered when her lungs had resumed normal functions, giving a half-laugh, half-gasp. Someone's heart was pounding furiously, but she couldn't tell whether it was hers, his, or both of theirs.

"You're perfect, Rosie," Bucky said, his voice suddenly hoarse. He was saying her name far more often than he had to. Beatrice wasn't sure if he was even aware of it.

"No, I…" She stopped, gulped, started again. She couldn't think properly with him so close. "Why did you kiss me?"

Bucky drew away slightly to get a better look at her. His eyebrows knit together. "Because I wanted to," he said firmly. "I've wanted to do that almost since I met you."

Beatrice closed her eyes and then opened them again, making sure that she wasn't actually in a dream. But this felt more real than any dream she'd ever had, and she was sure her brain couldn't duplicate the exact feel of a kiss when she'd never done it before. "Bucky, if you just doing this because you're bored or because—because you feel sorry for me, please tell me now."

His expression had bypassed confused and went straight to exasperated. "Rosie, Rosie, stop," he said. His eyes were very clear, no hint of mischief or amusement as he stared down into her own. "Why is it so difficult to believe that I  _want_ to do this?"

"Well, because you're  _you_ ," she said uselessly, dropping her gaze to the curve of his throat. "And I'm  _me._ You…you bring home a different girl every week."

"When was the last time I did that?" Bucky asked softly. Beatrice opened and closed her mouth, lost for words. Truthfully, she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him with a girl. Even Steve had commented on it.

"But Connie—"

" _Connie._ " Bucky let her name slide out in an annoyed sigh. "Nothing ever happened between us. Just a couple of dances." When Beatrice still looked unconvinced, he added, "Listen, I never had to guess whether or not a girl was interested in me, except for you. And you live with Steve; I didn't want to ask you out and then have him stuck in the middle if you refused. But when I was away, I realized that I couldn't put it off for any longer. If I get killed in this war—"

"Don't think like that."

"—my only regret would not be doing this at least once. I have no other regrets, Rosie. My parents are dead, Becca has Ernest to look after her now, and Steve's gotta learn how to finish fights sometime." Now it was Bucky's turn to lower his gaze. "I got a letter while I was away," he admitted. "I'm leaving this month. I don't know the exact date, but my entire division is shipping out within the next four weeks."

Cold flooded her entire body. _Within the month._  She had always known that Bucky would be sent off, but after months and no orders received, she had almost begun to hope he wouldn't be called up at all or perhaps even the war would end first. "Have you told Steve?" she whispered, her voice strangled.

Bucky shook his head. "I'm not planning on it until I get the official orders. I was kinda hoping you would be there when it happened; lessen the blow a bit. He won't be as upset if he has you."

Beatrice's extremities went numb. Her mind, halted just five minutes ago, began to churn out flimsy excuses, but she quickly put a stop to them. "Actually—actually, um, I won't be there. I can't be there. I…there's something I haven't told you. Either of you." She sucked in a breath, too much of a coward to meet his eyes. "I wasn't at work today," she said in a small voice. "Actually, I haven't been at work for two weeks. I was at training camp."

Bucky's lips parted slightly in astonishment. "Training camp," he repeated in a flat voice.

The explanation suddenly burst out of her. "I'm going to become a nurse, Bucky. I'm going to Europe. There's someone after me—I don't know who. They murdered Pryce to get information about me. Mrs. Banner was murdered just after you left. The detective assigned to the case told me that she mentioned my name around the time she would have been killed. They're probably looking to use me to get to my uncle. Howard Stark suggested becoming a nurse for the SSR and I agreed. And I've taken courses before, in night school…"

Bucky's face had gone through several expressions while she spoke: first incredulity, then something close to worry, and then it closed off entirely. "That's why you brought your suitcase home with you," he said. His tone was still even, but she could tell there was something bubbling just beneath the surface.

Beatrice nodded. "And Mrs. Reynolds fired me the same day. I really have nothing to lose."

That was when Bucky suddenly lost his composure. His hands tightened around her waist. "Nothing to lose?" he echoed incredulously, his voice audible over the music. Beatrice glanced around them nervously. "Your entire  _life,_ Rosie! You might not be fighting but there are a dozen times you could get killed every day!"

"If it keeps you and Steve safe—" she began hotly.

"Steve and I can take care of ourselves," Bucky said in a low, angry voice. "How do you think we'd feel if you got hurt or worse over there just because of us?"

"Well, it's not just about you," Beatrice retorted, suddenly on the defensive. "This is something  _I_ want to do, Bucky. I want to do this. I wanted to be a nurse before I even met either of you."

He saw the ferocity in her eyes, and something inside of him seemed to deflate, leaving him empty and unwilling to argue any longer. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning," Beatrice whispered, and she saw genuine anxiety flash across Bucky's face. She unwound her hands from his neck to place them on either side of his face, imploring him to look at her. She had wanted to touch him in this way for so long, so intimately yet casually, but she couldn't take any pleasure in the gesture. "Tell Rebecca I'm sorry I couldn't make it to her wedding," she said. "Go to the World Expo with Connie."

Bucky opened his mouth as if to protest, but Beatrice boldly placed a finger over his lips to stop him. She wondered if he felt the same shudder when his lips touched her skin as it did for her. "I know it's a stretch, but maybe we'll see each other there," she said in a low voice. "I'll be at a field hospital—"

"Are you two gonna dance or not?"

The annoyed voice came from behind them; startled, the pair turned to see the bartender leaning on the counter and staring over at them. He looked very far from winking at Beatrice again. "You're taking up the floor," he continued.

There weren't nearly enough couples there to crowd it in Beatrice's opinion, but she heeded his dismissal all the same. "I'm sorry, Bucky," she whispered so that only he could hear her, plucking the flower from her hair and untangling herself from his embrace so that she could place it back in the vase. "But this is my choice."

And for the second time in that dance hall, she quietly walked away and left him staring after her, but this time he didn't call out for her.

* * *

Beatrice fought back tears the entire way home, hoping that every person that passed her was Bucky running after her, as he had done the first time, but she was always left disappointed. The warmth that had enveloped her at having her first kiss—with _Bucky!_ —had dissipated by their conversation like someone had let out all the air out of a balloon. Like he'd said, he would be shipped out soon, anyway, but she wouldn't be in New York to write him letters or visit him if he was ever placed on leave. He had a point: while nurses wouldn't directly be in the line of fire, they certainly had a chance to become casualties, whether it was on the journey there or a bomb dropped on the field hospital. Nowhere was safe in a war zone.

She managed to control the worst of her sniffles as she let herself inside the flat, glancing over her shoulder one last time in case Bucky had followed her; alas, the street was empty. Feeling a phantom touch on her mouth, Beatrice shook her head firmly, hoping to scatter her thoughts, and stepped inside.

Steve was sitting on his favorite old armchair, scribbling something, but he quickly flipped his sketchbook shut as soon as she walked in. "Beatrice," he greeted her, trying and failing to hide the book behind his back. Beatrice was too out of it to ask him what he was being so secretive about, anyway. "Where'd you and Bucky go?"

"Dancing," Beatrice admitted, dropping into the couch across from him and drawing her knees up to her chest.

"I take it that didn't go so well," Steve said.

"How did you know?"

"You don't exactly sound thrilled," he pointed out.

Beatrice rested her chin on her knees and studied his kind, open face. "It didn't," she said. "What do you want for supper?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure? I can make something—"

"You're not my mother, Beatrice." Steve's tone was soft but firm, and Beatrice sank back into the cushions from where she had been starting to stand up. So there went that plan of avoiding a conversation out the window. She couldn't believe she had even been entertaining the possibility of avoiding telling Steve and letting him find out via Bucky the next morning.

They were both silent for a long while until Steve broke the silence. "You know, if you wanna talk, I'm here," he began awkwardly, but they both knew she would talk. She always did.

Beatrice forced herself to look him in the eyes this time as she said, "Steve…there's something I have to tell you."

He was instantly all ears, and she grudgingly explained, for the second time that day, that Mrs. Banner had been murdered and Howard Stark suggested she become a nurse. She explained that Bucky hadn't been the happiest when he'd heard the news, but carefully left out the part about their kiss. When she was finished, feeling like a weight had been lifted off of her chest, Steve's face had fallen slightly, but he still looked thoughtful.

"Beatrice…" he began, and she braced for the worst, "Don't get yourself into trouble on account of me."

"You've gotten yourself into trouble on account of  _me,"_ Beatrice pointed out, thinking of the day at the movie theater. They had never gotten to see Casablanca after all.

"That's not the same," Steve tried to argue.

"Isn't it?"

He finally held up his hands in mock surrender. "If you want to do this, neither of us are going to stop you. And it doesn't sound like we could even if we wanted to. But hey, it's not your fault if someone is after you. Bucky and I can take care of ourselves."

Beatrice scowled at the boys' near-identical phrasing; did neither of them have self-preservation instincts? It was looking more and more like the answer was no. She peered closely at him. "Are you—are you sure you're okay with this? I—um, I expected you to be the one to put up a fight, not Bucky."

"Yeah." He smiled at her, sadly. The corners of his mouth turned upward and his eyes crinkled at the corners, but his expression stayed solemn. "If that's what you want, Beatrice."

She excused herself shortly afterwards to go to bed, as she would be getting an early start the next morning. Her suitcase didn't need to be re-packed, as she couldn't bring anything aside from clothing and a few small personal items. She tucked Ivan's letter into a side pocket along with the picture of Henry and then a larger photo frame. It had been taken during a warm day in March when the three of them had visited Prospect Park. Bucky had brought along Rebecca's camera for the occasion in revenge for her taking the car to visit Ernest after she'd promised to give it to him that day. There were four pictures in the frame that Beatrice had saved up a week's wages to buy.

The first one was of Steve and Beatrice sitting opposite each other, cross-legged on the grass and taken by Bucky. Steve had his sketchbook in his lap and the picture only highlighted how thin and bony his arms were. Beatrice's knees were pulled up to her chin in much the same way as they had been when she was talking to him earlier and her arms were wrapped around her legs; she was smiling at him. He had been telling her about watercolor paints that day, she remembered. He always became so enthusiastic when he talked about art.

The second picture was of Bucky and Beatrice taken by Steve. Bucky was grinning wickedly as he lounged carelessly on a bench, his arm thrown over the back. Sitting beside him was Beatrice, who was very pointedly not looking at him as he grinned at her.

And the last picture was of Steve and Bucky, taken by Beatrice herself. It was a close-up of both their faces. Bucky had his arm around Steve's shoulders and Steve was smiling hesitantly at the camera, his shoulders hunched and his eyes serious. He shut up like a clam whenever he had his picture taken.

But the last one was Beatrice's personal favorite. Bucky had insisted on a picture of the three of them together, and as they were leaving he'd flirted with a girl in typical Bucky fashion until she had agreed to take a picture of them standing against the backdrop of a shady forest path lined with grand oak trees. Steve and Bucky stood on either side of Beatrice, Steve looking slightly worried as always and Bucky looking carefree. Beatrice had taken off her hat and her hair blew in the breeze, slightly blurred by the motion. It reminded her of simpler times. She sighed and dropped the photo frame in the suitcase, where it landed with a soft bounce on top of her clothes.

* * *

As she'd expected, she barely slept at all that night, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. Whether she was thinking about the kiss with Bucky, her journey the next day, or her fear of shadowy figures stalking Brooklyn looking for her, she remained stubbornly awake. Sometime after midnight she heard Steve's footsteps pad into his bedroom. She longed to be with him, even if they didn't talk, to derive some comfort from his presence, but to wake him up now would be selfish.

She finally did fall asleep around four o'clock, by her estimation, but it was fitful and she kept waking up with startled jerks, afraid she would miss her alarm. But at exactly six o'clock her wristwatch beeped and she sat up, rubbing her scratchy eyes. She'd gotten barely two hours of sleep, if that, but she pushed it to the back of her mind, knowing she would have plenty of time to sleep on the ship.

As she was pulling on her uniform, she heard the front door quietly open and close. Suddenly absurdly afraid that Steve was leaving, she hurriedly finished buttoning up her blouse and grabbed her cap in one hand and her suitcase in the other before rushing out of the bedroom.

She had been wrong: Steve was standing by the door, talking to Bucky, who held a steaming cup of coffee. Beatrice felt a mild shock that he had showed up; she'd already resigned herself to the notion that she wouldn't get to see him before she left.

Both boys stopped talking and turned to her. Steve greeted her with a small smile; Bucky's was more hesitant. He looked almost sheepish.

"What are you doing here?" Beatrice blurted before she could stop herself.

He shrugged one shoulder and scuffed his shoe on the floor. "I wasn't about to let you leave New York without saying goodbye," he said. "The uniform looks good on you."

Beatrice decided to be embarrassed about the compliment later and stuck her cap on her head, completing the look. "Thank you," she said. "You—neither of you—need to come to the harbor with me, if you don't want to."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Don't be silly, Beatrice," Steve said. "We're coming with you no matter what. I just need to get my jacket." He made a show of walking into the kitchen, leaving Bucky and Beatrice alone.

While Beatrice stared at him, wondering what she should do, Bucky took a step forward and held out the cup of coffee to her. It was ostensibly a peace offering. "Look, I'm sorry about yesterday," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "When Steve takes the news better than I did, you know something's wrong."

For her own sanity, Beatrice chose to believe he meant the news of her leaving rather than their kiss. "I'm sorry too," she admitted. "I should have told you…before. It was just such a quick decision."

Bucky grinned, a bit ruefully. "You're tellin' me, Rosie," he said. "Hey, I have something for you." And he reached into his pocket before Beatrice could react.

It was a delicate bracelet, decorated with bluish-gray gemstones that shone like charms in the light and were bound together with a silver chain. His eyes, Beatrice noticed, were the same color as the gemstones. Her mouth fell open and she stared at him in shock. "Bucky…" she began in awe, unable to believe her eyes. "It's beautiful."

"It's adularia moonstone," he told her. "Wouldn't want you to forget about me with all the wounded guys there needing to be patched up."

"Oh, I don't think it's possible to forget about you," Beatrice said dryly. She looped the bracelet around her wrist, but fumbled with the tiny clasp in her haste to put it on. Bucky gently took her hand and fastened the clasp in half a second. It was a wonder how he was able to do it so nimbly. "Thank you," she said, unable to find the proper words. The bracelet was light and the metal was cool against her skin. "I promise I'll write every day."

"You better," he said, some of the worry lifting from his eyes. He was worried about  _her._ Beatrice unthinkingly threw her arms around him, burying her face against his shirt and inhaling as deeply as she could, trying to memorize every sensation while she still had the chance. For a brief second, she swore she could feel his lips against her hair. She hugged him as tightly as she could, knowing she wouldn't get to hold him like this again for a very long time.

* * *

After Steve had found his jacket and Beatrice finished her coffee, it was nearly seven o'clock and she was due at the NYPOE in less than twenty minutes. She found that she couldn't give the apartment one last farewell tour—the only way she could cope was by telling herself that she was just leaving for a little while and she would be back soon enough, although she had already justified the opposite by hugging Bucky for longer than was probably necessary. At least he hadn't seemed to mind it.

"Whenever you come back, you're always welcome here, Beatrice," Steve told her seriously as he closed the door behind them. Beatrice looked at him, and then at Bucky, who was standing close behind her, and began to seriously doubt her decision for the first time. If there was anything she would miss in New York, it would be them. She would have no qualms about going to Europe, even if she was in danger, if it meant being with them.

The crowds were already swarming the streets blocks away from the harbor—there were just as many civilians saying goodbye to their loved ones as there were military personnel. Up ahead, over the heads of the crowd, Beatrice could see the massive smokestacks of the RMS  _Queen Mary_ in the distance. She had been repainted gray for her military service. The ship was even bigger than she had imagined—a good thing, too, as Diana had said there would be twelve thousand people on board.

They passed a familiar yellow coupe with two even more familiar figures leaning against the doors. Beatrice recognized Abraham Erskine and Howard Stark at once, surrounded by various SSR agents. She was beyond touched when Howard, looking bored, scanned the crowd and spotted her. He grinned and saluted her; she gave him a small wave back and smiled at Erskine, who inclined his head toward her. He looked almost proud.

Bucky and Steve had both been silent on the journey there, which was unusual for them. Both walked on either side of her as they usually did, and Beatrice was afraid that if she began talking she would choke up. After they had passed a group of soldiers, rifles in hands, walking in neat rows to the ship, she noticed Bucky stiffen. He would be one of those soldiers in just a few weeks' time. Beatrice wanted to comfort him, but she didn't dare to do so in front of Steve, who had eyes like a hawk's despite being astigmatic.

There came a point a block from the boarding area where they could move forward no further. Bucky and Steve moved off to the side, letting the throng of people pass, and Beatrice knew it was time to say goodbye.

"Well," she said, breaking the silence and bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, at a loss for what to say. "I guess this is it, then."

Bucky held out a hand to her, and she stared at it for a moment before he broke into a grin. "C'mere," he said, and this time it was his turn to pull her into a tight hug. She hadn't expected to hug him again so soon, and she felt his breath tickle her ear as he whispered something to her, but she couldn't quite hear it, as loud as the background noise was. He pulled away too soon, and Beatrice turned to Steve, who looked at a loss for words.

"Remember, we're on the Allied side," he said, with a crooked grin. So he was going for levity, then. Again, Beatrice was the one to pull him in for a hug like she had the evening before and kissed him on the cheek. She wasn't surprised to see him turn red at that, his hand going up to his cheek as if he couldn't quite believe that it had happened.

For once, none of them knew what to say. Beatrice knew she should have prepared something—maybe a heartfelt speech, or a witty joke, but she couldn't say anything aside from, "I'll miss you. Both of you. I promise to write as often as I can. And…thank you. For everything that you've done for me in the past six months. I'll never forget that."

"Anytime, Rosie," Bucky said, and Steve nodded. The clock tower across the street began chiming the hour: it was exactly seven o'clock. She was out of time.

So Beatrice sucked in a deep breath, gave Steve and Bucky one last longing look, committing their faces to memory, before picking up her suitcase and turning her back on New York.


	16. XVI

**2014**

**Washington, D.C.**

In the end, it was Sam who received the call first.

They were in the car, speeding along the freeway back across the bridge to D.C. after spending the morning chasing a cold lead in Arlington. Despite being discharged from the hospital a scarce three days beforehand—healing in days the extent of injuries it would take a normal human weeks, if not months, to recover from—Steve had insisted on driving there and back. Glancing over at his friend, Sam couldn't help but wonder if it gave him a sense of control he currently did not possess.

"Stark wants me back in New York," Steve said, breaking the silence. It was the first time he had spoken since they'd left the warehouse, which, after hours of searching, had proven to be frustratingly empty.

Sam's phone was vibrating in his pocket, but he decided whoever was on the other end of the line could wait just a moment longer. "Are you going?" he asked.

Steve sighed, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. An array of at least five police cars sped by them, lights flashing and sirens blaring. "I don't know. But I doubt Bucky would want to stay here."

In the ensuing silence, Sam pulled out his phone, seeing that he had several missed calls from Mike, a friend from the VA. He quickly texted, _Driving. Will call you later._

"I was thinking—he might want to go back there," Steve was saying. "To Brooklyn. And Tony wouldn't have to know…"

"Why does he need you so urgently?" Sam asked. "Official Avengers business?" He flashed a wide grin. "A date to the next charity ball?"

Steve's expression remained solemn. His eyes were fixed on the police cars ahead of them. "He'll want to know what happened to S.H.I.E.L.D. I don't have the patience to deal with him right now. I'm sure Fury will eventually track him down and explain the situation."

Sam's phone vibrated again, and this time he chanced a glance down at it. _Have you heard what happened at the Smithsonian? Gunfire at Captain America exhibit. The whole museum has been evacuated._

"Yo, Cap," he said urgently. "Look at this." He held the phone up to Steve, who briefly took his eyes off the road to read Mike's text. The car didn't waver an inch.

Sam could see the change in Steve's expression immediately. His eyes darkened, and he swung over into the exit lane behind the police cars, earning himself several annoyed honks. The old car groaned in protest as he pushed the speedometer past ninety.

"Do you think it's him?" Sam asked.

"It has to be," replied Steve, his tone clipped. His entire body was taunt with tension; Sam had never seen him this agitated before. "Ask him if there have been any civilian casualties."

Sam obediently did as he asked. Luckily, Mike responded almost immediately:

_I don't think so._

Steve's entire body relaxed. "I knew it," he said softly.

Sam wanted to warn him not to get his hopes up, but he could see it was already too late. If Steve's hopes were any higher, they would be in outer space.

As they neared the Smithsonian, they were met by a barricade of police cars directing traffic back the other way. "Maybe we should come at it from another angle," Sam suggested, but Steve was already shaking his head.

"There's no time," he said. "We'll have to get out here." He pulled over to a spot on the shoulder and immediately got out, striding across the grass to the parking lot. Sam scrambled to follow him, pushing down the lock on his door before he climbed out. With the way Steve had been driving, it was bound to croak sooner than later.

The first group of police officers guarding the doors moved to stop them, but as soon as they caught a glimpse of Captain America they grudgingly stepped to the side. Sam doubted they would deny him entrance to his own (and possibly destroyed) exhibit.

However, by the time they got to the front doors, looks alone were not enough to get them by. "Captain Rogers, I appreciate your concern, but this is a crime scene," a burly officer said, crossing his arms and blocking their path.

"I understand, sir," Steve said politely, switching on the charm and looking as innocent as possible. "But this is important. We promise not to disturb anything."

Sam could tell that the officer wouldn't budge, not even for Captain America. Getting inside legally would take less time than breaking in; he was sure that was the only reason Steve was playing nice. So he stepped forward and declared, "Officer, we have reason to believe that the Winter Soldier was involved in these events."

Steve shot him a warning look, but it was too late: the officer was blinking at them in disbelief. "The Winter Soldier?" he repeated. "Why on earth would he be at the Smithsonian?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Steve said before Sam could reveal anything else. "At least let us review the security footage. Please."

The officer glanced back at his coworkers, evidently searching for support, but none of them seemed particularly concerned about letting a national hero inside—especially one who had likely saved them all the previous week—and finally relented. "Ten minutes, tops," he warned. "Or I _will_ have to forcibly remove both of you from the premises, understood?"

Sam doubted Steve even heard him, since he had already disappeared inside, so he was left to smile and nod politely at the officer before jogging in after his friend.

The lobby was filled with even more officers and various law enforcers, clustered in groups and barking at their squawking walkie-talkies. The building looked relatively intact, at least. Steve pulled Sam to a quiet corner where they wouldn't be noticed. He didn't look pleased.

"Why did you tell him?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Man, in case you didn't know, Hydra secrets leaked onto the Internet last week. If they haven't announced who the Winter Soldier is yet, they're going to soon."

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but he caught a glimpse of something behind Sam and closed it again. He strode across the lobby to where two bodies on stretchers were being wheeled out from the elevators by paramedics shouting out vital signs to each other. Sam caught a split-second glimpse of two unfamiliar men wearing oxygen masks before Steve quickly strode away.

"I saw them with Pierce one time," Steve muttered as they headed across the lobby. "They're Hydra. And Bucky left them alive."

Sam let out a low whistle. "So Barnes is getting around. You think he followed them here?"

Steve shook his head. "I think—no, I _know_ —that Bucky came here to learn about his past. There's no other option, Sam. And they must have been monitoring the area, anticipated him coming here."

"Well, they weren't wrong," Sam said. "Maybe he just wanted a day off."

Steve glared at him. "Hilarious. Let's go see the security footage. It has to show us something."

Luckily, there was no one in the control room, and Sam was easily able to rewind the tapes back an hour. The camera scanned the Captain America exhibit, and Steve zoomed in on a green-jacketed figure standing very still in front of the Bucky Barnes mural. "That's him, Sam," he murmured.

"At least he's making an effort to blend in," Sam remarked, crossing his arms. Then, for no apparent reason, Bucky suddenly turned around and slipped out of the frame, melting into the crowd like a ghost.

"Look," he said, and pointed at two of the security guards, who were recognizable as the men they had just seen. One was standing at the north end of the exhibit, by the emergency exit, while the second was standing in front of the auditorium doors. "Do you think he noticed them?"

"Probably," Steve nodded, and both men waited for the inevitable gunshots. But Bucky didn't reappear back in the frame, and the crowds surged through the exhibit like normal. And then, the first guard, the one standing by the exit, strode through the crowd, a gun visible in his hand. The second guard followed him as he passed.

Steve and Sam exchanged a leveled glance and waited as several minutes passed by, but nothing happened. And then, finally, in some response to an unheard noise, the crowd as one immediately rushed for the doors and the exhibit was deserted within twenty seconds. Steve was leaning so close to the television that his nose was almost touching it.

Neither of them spoke for a very long time, until a muffled ringing emanated from Steve's pocket. He seemed reluctant to tear his eyes away from the footage, but a terse expression crossed his face as soon as he saw the number on his phone. "Natasha," he said by way of greeting. Sam pretended to be absorbed in the television. If he strained his ears, he could just hear her reply.

"Steve," she purred in a gentle mockery of his clipped tone, but there was an undercurrent of something that made Sam think this wasn't just a courtesy call. "You sound as thrilled as usual. I take it you haven't had any luck on your end?"

As usual, Steve jumped straight to the point. "Actually, two Hydra agents were attacked at the Smithsonian this afternoon," he told her. "They're wounded, but alive. And we have a pretty good idea who did it."

Natasha made an interested noise. "Too bad. I would have liked to be there," she said. "Listen, I have something that I think you might be interested in."

While Sam pretended to be focusing on anything other than the conversation, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, on one of the bottom cameras that was positioned above one of the emergency exits, with a view that looked out onto an overgrown lot with several dumpsters scattered around sprayed-over parking spaces. A man dressed casually in jeans and a white shirt had sprinted into the frame and was trying desperately to wrench open the door, which refused to budge. Even through the grainy quality, Sam could see the terror on his face as he pounded on the door. Slipping and sliding, he managed to pull out a gun and point it at someone just outside of the frame.

And then he was attacked by a figure in a dark green jacket and baseball cap. The television crackled and suddenly cut off, white static filling the screen.

"Steve," he said sharply, intending to tell him what he had just seen—but it was obvious Steve had caught it too. His shocked look quickly morphed into one of determination and resolve.

"Hang on," he barked to Natasha. "I'll call you back as soon as I can." His phone was back in his pocket within a second. Sam didn't need persuading—both men were out of the control room within half a second.

"It was at the west entrance!" Sam shouted as they flew through the deserted corridors, ignoring a police officer barking after them. "Behind the main fire exit."

Steve was full-on sprinting now, and soon left Sam behind, who groaned and thought longingly of his wings, tucked safely away at home. Steve's shield was still in the car. He prayed that the Hydra agents were dressed similarly to the first one—and he was certain there had to be more; there always were.

Even with Sam's woefully slow running compared to Steve, they both reached the emergency exit in under a minute and burst outside into bright sunlight. Sam was temporarily blinded; he shielded his eyes and saw that Steve had no such problems—he was bent over a crumpled body in front of them that Sam would have likely tripped over.

As his eyes adjusted, Sam saw that the guy was young—he had dark brown hair and dark eyes, a handsome face. His stomach turned over when he saw foam pouring out of his mouth. Steve bent over him and pried open his jaw. "Cyanide," he said grimly, showing Sam the space where his false tooth had been. "They did this during the war too. He must have swallowed it before—"

A barrage of gunshots blasted the air as a group of six more Hydra soldiers, this time dressed in tactical uniforms ready for combat, poured out from behind one of the dumpsters. Sam yelled in surprise and jumped out of the way, slamming into Steve so he couldn't go charging straight at them without uniform nor shield like the idiot he was. But his body weight barely made Steve move an inch; Sam whirled around for the door before remembering it was locked. They were cornered.

Before Sam could close his eyes and wish that he'd told his mother he loved her one last time, or asked out the girl at the reception desk, there were six more gunshots, this time from a greater distance, and each of the Hydra soldiers fell as if they had been stricken down by God on the spot. Sam froze in the sudden stillness, his ears ringing. Steve recovered much faster than he did; he was staring at something Sam couldn't see, at least not clearly: someone was standing just inside the treeline, staring back at them. Their jacket was the exact color of the foliage, and all he saw was a flash of metal before they were gone again.

"Bucky!" Steve shouted, and made a beeline for the trees.

Sam immediately scrambled to his feet and ran after his friend, ignoring the pained shouts of the incapacitated Hydra agents. They were suddenly plunged into a thick forest that ran along the edge of the Potomac, and with no path in sight, he was left to hack aside leaves and push aside branches that were scraping his face as he ran after Steve. He could hear him calling for Bucky somewhere ahead of him, and his voice was all he had to go by as he stumbled his way through the woods. "Cap!" he called, and then suddenly he ran headlong into Steve. This time Steve wasn't prepared for it, and both of them went sprawling to the ground, Sam rolling several feet until he landed painfully on a log.

Swearing, he sat up and rubbed his head. Steve was just behind him, already on his feet and looking frustrated. Their quarry was nowhere to be seen, though he blended in so perfectly Sam doubted he could have spotted him anyway.

"Steve, he obviously doesn't want to be found," Sam said firmly, as Steve looked like he was ready to begin running again.

"He saved us, Sam. And he didn't kill any of those agents back there, either."

Sam rolled his eyes; he wondered how Bucky, the old Bucky, had managed to get Steve to listen to any sense. "Look, he's not going to get very far if he keeps leaving a trail of bodies behind like this. We'll find him eventually."

Steve dragged a hand over his face, looking exhausted. Sam wondered if he should have made him stay at the hospital longer. He stepped toward Sam and helped him back to his feet. "If Bucky doesn't want to be found, then he won't be found. Natasha said he was a ghost. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't believe he existed."

"Dude— _he_ may be a ghost, but his victims aren't," Sam pointed out. "Listen, can we maybe suit up before we go off on this wild goose chase again?"

Steve sighed but acquiesced; he seemed to have accepted that Bucky was probably long gone. "I'll send the security footage to Natasha and see if she can make something of it," he said as they began to pick their way back out of the woods. Or at least Sam thought they were; all the trees looked identical to him.

Sam felt a prickling on the back of his neck, as if he was being watched, but forced himself to ignore it. If he told Steve, they would never leave this forest. "Are you gonna call her back?" he asked, hoping to take Steve's mind off of their failed pursuit. "Sounds like she had something pretty important to say."

Steve glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow, but pulled out his phone all the same. Even from his distance Sam could see that he had several missed calls. Steve pressed a button for an unfamiliar number and this time Sam hurried to match his pace so he could listen in again.

"Finally decided to get back to me, huh?" Natasha answered on the first ring. "Busy talking to Sharon?"

A muscle in Steve's jaw jumped. "What is it, Nat?"

"Hoo boy, are you sitting down?" she asked. "Wouldn't want you to lose your balance and break something."

" _Natasha."_

"Fine, fine," she pouted. "Listen, Barton and I are in Switzerland. We found an abandoned Hydra base that was completely off the grid." She paused. "Actually, it wasn't a base at all, but a laboratory S.H.I.E.L.D. gave Arnim Zola before he died. Looks like he was using it to experiment on…things."

"Yeah, we know he did a lot of illegal things under their noses. Is there anything else?" Steve pressed, knowing she was holding something back.

Natasha didn't reply immediately, although there was an almost imperceptible exhale. "Actually, there is. We—well, _Clint_ —found a cryochamber. It's completely out of date, but there's someone inside it. Alive. We called Fury in just to be sure."

The sensation that they were being watched had increased tenfold. Sam hoped it was just a raccoon or fox. Hell, he would have even taken a bear at this point.

Steve's knuckles were white, so hard was his grip on the phone. "And?"

This time Natasha really did sigh before answering. "Her name is Beatrice Hartley."

The name meant nothing to Sam, but clearly it had an impact on Steve: he stopped short, his jaw going slack. His eyes widened. _"Beatrice?"_ he asked in the same wondering, disbelieving tone he had when he'd first discovered Bucky was alive.

"Yes," Natasha replied. "We matched her records to the ones in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database. What's left of it, anyway. The prints and facial recognition are the same. It's definitely her, Steve."

"And you're _sure_ she's still alive?" Sam feared Steve would snap the phone right in two from how tightly he was gripping it.

"Yes, we're sure," Natasha said patiently. "Good thing, too. There's no telling how long that chamber would have lasted. Fury's calling in a team right now. We thought you might want to be here when she wakes up."

Steve's eyes briefly flickered closed and then opened again, as if unable to believe that his world was still the same one as it had been five minutes ago. "Fury did?" he asked.

There was a minuscule pause before the spy answered, "No. This is all me."

"Thank you, Natasha." Gratitude colored Steve's voice. There was no trace of his frustration from earlier; an incredulous smile was slowly spreading across his face. "We'll get the next flight to Geneva."

"No need," she replied. "A Stark Industries jet has already been commissioned. It should arrive at Dulles in half an hour." She paused. "He's going to demand a full explanation when you get back, though. I'm leaving that one up to you."

This didn't even seem to deter Steve. "We'll be there," he said. "See you then." Without waiting for a reply, he flipped the phone shut and turned to face Sam. His gaze was faraway, as if he was lost in his own thoughts—or memories. Sam had never seen such an expression on his face before.

"What is it, man?" Sam asked. They'd broken free of the forest and were walking back toward the front of the museum. Steve barely glanced at the Hydra agents as they passed the bodies. The wail of an ambulance siren was quickly approaching; the authorities would find the injured men in no time. "Who is she?"

"My best friend," Steve said simply. "Aside from Bucky." When Sam gave him an exasperated look, he grinned ruefully and inclined his head in the direction of their car. "Pack your things. I'll explain it on the way."


	17. XVII

**1943**

**North Atlantic Ocean**

"Old maid again, Beatrice!" Diana cackled as she threw down her last card triumphantly. "You really don't have the best luck at this, do you?"

Beatrice stared down at the queen of hearts in her hand and shook her head, grinning as ruefully as she could. "I guess not," she said, flipping it over and placing it back on the deck. It was the fourth hand she'd lost in a row.

"But she does have a soldier, right, Beatrice?" Caroline asked slyly. Ruth and Diana looked up in interest. Beatrice silently cursed mentioning Bucky to them at all. Clearly the word "friend" didn't exist in their vocabularies.

Then again, what kind of friends went to dance halls together and then kissed? Beatrice tried, and failed, to push the thought out of her mind. "He's not my soldier," she insisted, hoping the conversation would turn to Caroline's fiancé in the Navy or even whatever hapless G.I. Diana had snared the night before. She rivaled only Bucky in her relentless pursuit of arm candy. Beatrice winced at the image of him popping up uninvited in her thoughts again.

"What was his name again? Jack?" Caroline asked curiously. So they weren't going to drop the subject unless they got an answer out of her.

Resigned, Beatrice sighed. "James." It wasn't the complete truth, nor was it a lie, either; there had to be hundreds of Jameses on the ship alone. As long as she didn't give any other information, it would be impossible for them to guess who he was if they ever happened to meet. She could picture Bucky's smirk already.

Diana glanced up from where she was expertly shuffling the cards. "I don't suppose he has a last name, then?" she asked slyly. "Or is 'James' all you know?"

"It's all  _you're_ getting to know," Beatrice said, a bit sourly. "For the last time, it doesn't matter because we're not together." Caroline and Ruth both looked surprised at her sudden vehemence, but Diana only raised her eyebrows coolly.

"If that's what you want to think when you're wearing a bracelet like  _that,"_ she said before beginning to deal the cards again.

This time Beatrice stood up from her bunk and edged around the others to the door. "I think I'll pass this time," she said. "I need some fresh air."

"Suit yourself," Diana said with a shrug, and then laughed at her terrible pun.

As she slipped out of the door, Beatrice heard Ruth say nervously, "Hitler's placed a bounty on this ship…two hundred thousand dollars and the Iron Cross."

"Don't be like that, Ruth," scolded Caroline. "She's not called the Gray Ghost for nothing. Besides, we're almost there."

And Beatrice was enormously grateful for it. After ten days at sea, being cramped in a tiny cabin that squeezed a dozen bunk beds together and then dealing with the seasickness that had gripped what seemed like the entire ship at once, she was more than ready to step onto dry land again. The entire ship still smelled like stale vomit; Beatrice was sure she would never get the stench out of her nose again. And to make matters worse, as a nurse she had been tasked—along with Caroline, Ruth, and Diana—to work in the sick bay during the days the ship had been tossing around in a storm. The soldiers hadn't been the only ones who were ill as the ship heaved and lurched through the waves.

All in all, it had been a miserable journey, with nothing left to do other than play card games after her shifts. She'd written ten days' worth of letters to Bucky and Steve and Ivan and Angie and even one to Erskine, but she knew she would never be able to send them as there was no chance they would get past the censors; besides, she had been under a nauseous haze the entire time and the majority of her paragraphs likely lacked any sense of coherence.

Miraculously, her thoughts cleared as she stepped out onto the deck, empty save for a dozen or so G.I.'s smoking at the prow. Most of the company was still asleep as it was very early morning, but after spending several days working in the sick bay at all hours, the nurses had lost all sense of time. Night and day had blended into one for Beatrice, though she knew they would be arriving at Southampton later that day.

She made her way over to the far railing and crossed her arms over it, twisting her bracelet around her wrist and wondering at how smoothly the ship cut through the water when there was no tempestuous gale to pitch them around like they were merely a sailboat. The salty spray blew up into her face, and Beatrice took a deep breath, hoping to chase the lingering musty odor of the living quarters away for good. She was looking forward to getting off the ship—massive though the  _Queen Mary_ was, she was claustrophobic with this many people on board—even if it meant they would have to take a smaller ship across the English Channel. At least that journey would only take a few hours.

They were surrounded by a heavy fog on all sides, pressing around the ship as if it was going to swallow them whole. It was like they were suspended in the middle of nowhere—like they had sailed right off the end of the earth. Beatrice couldn't even see the sky, nor the water a hundred feet below. She imagined German U-boats slinking along below them, silent and deadly, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It wasn't that she didn't want to become a nurse: in fact, it was quite the opposite. She'd had notions of being one ever since she was a child and took careful, loving care of her paper dolls. While she had never officially attended nursing school, she had taken night courses sponsored by the Red Cross when the war had broken out, throwing herself headlong into the notion, no matter how many times her father shouted at her that no daughter of his would go back to the very place that had ruined him. She was painfully aware that Howard had pulled many strings to get her here, and she would have to work twice as hard as the other nurses. She didn't mind that. No, Beatrice couldn't help but think this was the wrong timing. She wished that Hydra hadn't forced her to flee to Europe like she was a fox running from their hunting dogs (she was well aware that this was all Ivan's fault—since what else could Hydra want her for?—and he was by proxy putting Henry in danger too, but she had been well aware of that since they had left for Russia) but most of all, she wished that she didn't have to leave Steve and Bucky, attached to them as she had become. They were both like family to her, but they were a family that she had chosen for herself. Their bond, she thought, ran deeper than blood.

But she couldn't stop or change the course of a war just because the timing was inconvenient for her; she almost laughed at the thought. There were hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions, of other people who were in worse situations than her. She had chosen this, after all. She could have stayed in New York and not acted so rashly. But now Pryce and Mrs. Banner were both dead because of her, and the SSR had much more important things to do than sit around babysitting her, as Colonel Phillips had made clear. This was her choice, and she wasn't going to turn her back on it now.

Just as Beatrice came to this conclusion, she heard heavy footsteps behind her and a young lieutenant came up to stand beside her, leaning on the railing like she was. She glanced over quizzically at him; his hair was shorn nearly to his scalp and he wore an SSR pin on his lapel.

Beatrice gave a small start of surprise; she knew that undercover members of the agency were everywhere, from nurses like her to doctors to soldiers to captains, but she'd been under the impression that she, Diana, Caroline and Ruth were the only ones on the ship. The SSR had eyes and ears everywhere, Colonel Phillips had told them her first day at Camp Lehigh, and nurses were especially important because they were present when patients were at their most vulnerable. Nobody paid attention if a nurse was in earshot of an important conversation.

"Nice weather we're having, isn't it?" the lieutenant remarked, lighting up a cigarette and placing it between his lips. Beatrice stared blankly at him, unsure if this was some sort of code she wasn't privy to.

"I—I guess," she stammered. "It's a bit foggy, though."

He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a tiny slip of paper, sliding it across the railing toward her. To an outside observer it would have looked as if he was offering her his cigarette. Beatrice took it and closed her fingers over the edges. The lieutenant turned back to the sea, took one last puff of smoke and flicked the ashes into the waves before dropping the cigarette and crushing it with the heel of his boot. And then he was striding away before she had the chance to ask him any questions. He'd never made direct eye contact with her.

After she'd recovered from the strange occurrence, and made sure that nobody was looking at her, Beatrice opened her hand and slowly unfolded the paper. It was tiny, barely larger than her thumb, but someone had managed to squeeze a message onto it, written in such small print that she had to hold it up to her face to decipher it.

_Meet at 0900 at docks. H.S._

Beatrice stared at it, certain that he had the wrong person. They were nowhere near any sort of docks, let alone land, and it was already—she glanced down at her wristwatch—nearly eight o'clock. Just as she was about to turn around and search for the lieutenant to tell him he'd been mistaken, the fog around the ship suddenly broke, sunlight pouring down onto the deck, and there, in the distance, was the faint but unmistakable edge of a coastline.

Beatrice stared from the paper in her hand to the coast in wonder, drinking in her first sight of land for over a week, and then sprang into action, ripping the slip up into a dozen tiny pieces before letting the scraps blow away on the wind, and hurried below deck to tell the others.

* * *

Her first step back onto land felt like something of a rebirth for Beatrice; although it was a mound of dirt, trampled upon by thousands of feet before her, she was so relieved she could have collapsed to the ground and kissed it. Granted, her first sight of England wasn't the most pleasant; Southampton, from what she could see, was made up of docks and shipyards not unlike those back home, and farther out, rows and rows of identical brick buildings occasionally punctuated by a church spire and covered by a layer of smoke, but she would take it. It held none of the grandeur of New York, but Beatrice wasn't about to complain.

Ruth and Caroline walked ahead of her, both stumbling a bit—Beatrice could empathize; she too still had her sea legs—and Diana walked beside her. The two girls hadn't properly spoken since Beatrice had left their cabin so abruptly, and if she wasn't mistaken, she thought Diana looked a bit embarrassed. Her thoughts were proven correct when, not a minute later, the other girl said, "Listen, Beatrice, I'm sorry about what I said…before. I didn't realize it was such a sensitive subject for you."

"It's okay, Di," Beatrice told her. She would have been willing to forgive anything now, so relieved was she to finally be off the ship. "I didn't mean to be so harsh. It's just…I don't know where we stand now. Buc—James and I."

Diana's ears perked up in interest at this new bit of gossip. "Well, if it was him who gave you that bracelet…" she began, but the rest of her sentence was cut off by a whistle from somewhere in front of them. Beatrice automatically searched for the source of the noise and fought to conceal a surprised grin when she saw Howard Stark himself standing a ways away from the rest of the crowd, waving at her. He wore a pair of aviator sunglasses that hid most of his face from view, but the slicked-back dark hair gave him away instantly.

"Is that  _Howard Stark?"_ Diana asked in a strangled voice, following her gaze.

"Don't be stupid," laughed Caroline, turning back to scoff at Diana. "Why would Howard Stark be—"

Beatrice didn't hear the rest of her sentence, since she was already hurrying over to Howard. He looked pleased to see her, pushing down the tips of his sunglasses to get a better look. "I take it you got my message, then," he said. "Good."

"What are you doing here?" Beatrice demanded, keeping her voice as low as possible so the others couldn't hear. "I saw you in New York with Erskine—"

Howard grinned at her, in that roguish way that had landed him on the covers of a dozen different newspapers and magazines each year. Beatrice was rather irritated to find that she wasn't immune to his charms. "You seem to have forgotten, kid, that airplanes can cross the Atlantic in as little as half a day. I could have flown from New York to here and back twenty times."

"But the World Expo—"

"Isn't for another three days. Boy, you really  _do_ lose track of time out there, don't you?" Howard chuckled, and his eyes lit up when they caught sight of something over Beatrice's head. "I think your friends are looking for you," he added. "Tell them I don't bite."

Ignoring every one of his comments, Beatrice asked, "So why are you here, then? Why did you leave me a note?"

He reluctantly drew his eyes back down to hers. "Thank your uncle for that. He ordered me to get you to France as quickly and safely as possible. Unfortunately I was tied up last week, or I would have had you over here within twelve hours. It doesn't look like you're any worse for wear, though."

Beatrice took a step back, startled. "Well, tell him thank you very much for his offer, but I don't want any special treatment." She turned around and began to walk away, but Howard caught her by the arm, staring lazily back at her while she glared at him.

"Your friends are welcome to come along with you," he said. "Phillips won't mind since they're also members of the SSR. My plane has enough room to fit all of you for an hour or so."

" _Plane?"_ Beatrice asked, but it was too late; the others had already seen her starting to leave and congregated on her.

"Who  _is_ that, Beatrice?" Caroline asked, awed, but Diana went for a bolder approach.

"Are you Howard Stark?" she asked him, eyes flicking up and down his form with an approving eye.

"The one and only," Howard said, spreading his arms out in a welcoming gesture. Beatrice groaned. "Ladies, have any of you ever flown before? I can get you to base camp before your ship even leaves these docks."

"Are you sure we can come along?" asked Ruth, glancing sideways at Beatrice.

"The more, the merrier!" he announced, grabbing Diana's hand and kissing it with a flourish. She blushed—the first time Beatrice had ever seen her do so—and wound one arm over her waist while the other went over Ruth's shoulders. Several people in the vicinity turned to stare at them.

"How do you know him?" Caroline asked as they began to make their way up a winding path to where a sleek black car was parked.

Beatrice sighed. "It's a long story," she said.

* * *

The airfield was less than ten miles away from the docks, but the drive there felt like much longer. Howard drove on the opposite side of the road, Beatrice noticed, and the steering wheel was also reversed. That little detail, more than anything, was what made her feel like she was truly in a different world. Similar to the one she had left behind, but not exactly the same.

Southampton was all cobblestone streets and rows of identical buildings; it reminded Beatrice of Flatbush on a smaller scale. Children played in the streets, wearing threadbare, ill-fitting clothing. They were all so thin—too thin. The rationing must be even stricter here.

The first real sign of war she saw was a bombed-out street corner. Entire houses had been reduced to rubble on both sides and debris littered the street. Beatrice realized that it hadn't been pollution layering the city; it was smoke trailing out from the top of the destroyed buildings. Seeing there was no way they would be able to go through the wreckage, Howard abruptly turned down a side street, causing Beatrice, who was sitting in the front seat between him and Diana, to go toppling into him. She quickly righted herself, pretending she didn't notice Howard's grin.

"That looks…recent," Caroline said, twisting around in her seat to watch the buildings fade away.

The grin slid off Howard's face. "Last night," he explained. "Happened just after I got in. I was lucky I missed the air raid."

"And we're about to get into an airplane," Ruth pointed out. She didn't look too thrilled at the prospect anymore.

"Oh, don't worry, it's perfectly safe," Howard said, waving a dismissive hand. "These things usually only happen at night, anyway. Besides, I'm the best civilian pilot the SSR could hope for. You'll be safer with me than taking your chances in that canoe they were going to give you."

"Remind me again why we're doing this, exactly?" Diana asked.

"Ask your friend," Howard replied, pointing over at Beatrice. She sent him the angriest glare she could muster—she had hoped to be able to hide the secret from the others, but it looked to be too late.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead of them so that she didn't have to meet their gazes, she said, "My uncle works for the SSR—"

"For me, technically," Howard interrupted.

Beatrice ignored him. "—And I think that Hydra might be after him and are using me to get to him. There's a smaller chance of them being able to find me at a field hospital, especially when there are a lot of undercover SSR agents present."

She finally dared to look at her friends, hoping they wouldn't be angry at her for keeping the truth from them for so long, but instead of disgust on their faces there was just surprise and even worry.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice," said Caroline. "I had no idea..."

"Well," she stuttered, "Not really. I wanted to become a nurse anyway, and joining the SSR is a bonus."

"I'm sure all of you must be great or Phillips wouldn't have chosen you," said Howard. "That man is tougher than my grandma's Christmas fruitcake in July."

Diana and Caroline obediently laughed while Howard looked pleased. Ruth seemed as if she was working up the nerve to say something. "But why would they come after you specifically, Beatrice?" she asked. "There must be people in the SSR who are easier to get to and have a higher chance of spilling useful information to them."

The question had never occurred to Beatrice before; she suddenly felt idiotic for never considering it. She looked over at Howard for clarification.

"Ah," was all he said. His lips twitched. "That, my dear, has to do with what exactly Ivan Romanov knows that regular SSR agents wouldn't be privy to. Very classified information."

"Classified information that you also know about," Diana said. Howard grinned at her and suddenly slammed on the brakes; they screeched to a stop at once. Beatrice was nearly thrown into the windshield.

"Yes, I do," he said, and opened his door. Beatrice had been so caught up in the conversation that she hadn't realized they'd left the city behind and were driving on a narrow dirt road; tall grasses waved in the breeze on either side of them, but she thought she could see the airfield up ahead. Beatrice would never have guessed that she was in England; she could just as easily have been in New Jersey for all she knew. Perhaps some small part of her had expected Europe to be  _different_ somehow—but the war wasn't being fought on the ground here, was it? They were safe, at least for now. "Come with me."

Howard's airplane was nothing like the tiny contraption Beatrice had envisioned—instead, it was a massive silver beast, lined with orange trim and proudly bearing the Stark Industries logo on its tail. Beatrice wondered if he could be any more conspicuous.

It sat idle on the edge of the runway, a gravel strip of land that didn't look long enough to either take off or land on. If they overshot it in any way, they would end up crashing straight into a forest, or, even worse, the ocean. Beatrice tried not to think about the list of things that could go wrong as Howard led them up the steps inside the airplane, which was much bigger than she'd expected it to be. Although the cockpit had seats for two people, it seemed as though Howard would be the only one piloting it.

"This is nothing," Howard said proudly as if he could read her thoughts, running a loving hand over the controls. "You should see the one I use back home. Fits twice as many people and has its own bar."

While the others oohed and ahhed over the inventor, starry-eyed, Beatrice ventured back into the seating area. There was a row of seats in a semicircle around the back of the cabin and two facing the tail; all of them also had the company's logo emblazoned on the headrests. She had never imagined that an airplane could be so luxurious. Taking a seat nearest the hatchway—a tiny door with nothing more than a deadbolt securing it into place—she waited for Caroline and Ruth to come filing in and sit down on either side of her. Diana stayed in the cockpit with Howard, taking the co-pilot's seat. Beatrice supposed she should have expected nothing less.

"All set back there?" he asked, putting on a headset and flicking a switch on the roof. "Shouldn't be any turbulence according to the radar, but if there is, remember to fasten your seatbelts and hang on."

Beatrice wasn't sure if he was joking or not. She hoped Ruth and Caroline couldn't see her discomfort as Howard handed Diana a matching headset and pointed out the controls to her. She prayed he wouldn't let her try flying it.

"How long do you think it'll take to get there?" Caroline asked as the plane rumbled to life underneath them.

"Forty minutes, give or take a few," Howard replied. "According to the coordinates I was given, the hospital is set up a few miles outside of Bayeux."

The plane hurtled down the runway so fast that Beatrice was sure it would fall apart at any moment, bouncing and jolting over the cracked pavement. She held on tightly to the edge of her seat in a death grip, wishing she had been brave enough to tell Howard to stuff it when he'd met her at the docks. She chanced a glance out the window to see they were racing past trees at a speed that made her feel faintly sick, the landscape a green blur. Knowing it was far too late now and she had no choice but to accept her fate, Beatrice closed her eyes and held her breath.

The others were laughing at her. "You can open your eyes now," Diana called back to them. Beatrice waited a full ten seconds before she dared to do so, only to see the ground disappearing beneath them at an alarming speed. The docks of Southampton turned into little more than a hazy dot below, dwarfed by the glistening ocean. If she squinted, she could still see the  _Queen Mary._

Howard turned the plane sharply around so that they weren't flying over the Atlantic but another, narrower body of water, which Beatrice assumed was the English Channel. She had never been particularly fond of heights, and now liked them even less. Hoping to distract herself from the view, which Caroline and Ruth were enjoying far too much, Beatrice stood up and made her way over to the cockpit. Diana was eagerly listening in on a radio transmission while Howard focused his attention on the radar screen. Beatrice stood behind his seat for a minute before daring to ask the question that had bothered her since Ruth had spoken it aloud.

"What does my uncle know that Hydra wants so badly?" she said.

Howard laughed under his breath. "You didn't think I would give up classified information that easily, did you? Phillips might think I'm only good for the funding, but they put me through the ringer too, you know."

"It was worth a shot," muttered Beatrice.

"Listen, kid, there are things we do that even the higher-ups don't know about." Howard's eyes glittered. "The secrets' secrets."

"That's not an answer."

"You shouldn't even know what Hydra  _is_ ," Howard told her, but he was grinning. "Isn't that enough for you?"

Beatrice rolled her eyes. "You're terrible at discipline."

After a long pause, he settled back in his seat and glanced at the other girls, who were all absorbed in their own conversations and seemed completely oblivious to what he and Beatrice were talking about. Howard leaned forward and said in a low voice, "If Phillips or Ivan ever find out that I told you this, they'll shoot me on the spot."

"I promise I won't tell a soul," she said vehemently.

Something about her declaration seemed to convince him, and Howard pushed his headset down to his shoulders. "You know the basics of Hydra," he said. "Started out as Hitler's special weapons division, wanted to take over the world. You know, the usual. Well, their leader is a man named Johann Schmidt, handpicked by Adolf himself. Thing is, recently Schmidt got a bit too…radical for him. They didn't quite see eye-to-eye on certain things."

"Too radical for  _Hitler?"_

"The man is as mad as a hatter; don't say I didn't warn you." Howard smirked. "Well, Schmidt was working on a formula that he believed would make a kind of super soldier out of ordinary men. The perfect weapon. He kidnapped Erskine, who used to be one of the most pre-eminent doctors in all of Europe, killed his family, and forced him to create the serum."

Beatrice's eyes widened in horror. "Poor Erskine!"

"You're telling me," Howard said wryly. "Anyway, the formula was eventually completed, but it wasn't perfected. Erskine warned Schmidt there might be side-effects, but he didn't listen."

"What sort of side effects?"

"We still don't know. They must be pretty bad, though. So when the SSR got wind of this, we sent in one of our best agents to break Erskine out and take him to the States. As I'm sure you can imagine, we were very interested in the properties of the serum. Erskine didn't write anything down, so he's the only person on Earth who knows the specifics of it."

"And Schmidt wants to kill him before he can tell you anything," Beatrice realized.

Howard nodded. "We've been secretly testing recruits at Camp Lehigh for months now but haven't found anyone suitable enough yet. As I'm sure you've probably guessed, the people heading this project are Phillips, Erskine, me and your uncle."

"You're looking to create a perfect soldier, then." Beatrice crossed her arms, still unsure if she should actually believe him. "But if it didn't work out so well for Schmidt, why would you want to—"

The plane shuddered violently and suddenly dropped like a stone, causing Beatrice to grab hold of the first thing she could see, which happened to be the arm of Howard's chair. Her stomach felt like it had after she'd gone down the first drop on the Cyclone.

"Looks like we've got company!" Howard announced, immediately turning his attention back to the controls. Beatrice saw that another airplane was fast approaching them—but this one was sleeker, darker, and had a pointed nose. "And it ain't a Spitfire!"

"I thought you said this didn't happen during the day!" she shouted as Howard banked sharply to the right, tilting everything in the plane ninety degrees. Beatrice scrambled to stay upright as her ears began to build with pressure from the sudden altitude change.

"I said usually, didn't I?" Howard yelled back as the plane began to spiral downwards.

 _I'm going to kill him,_ Beatrice thought hazily. She fought her way back to the seating area, where both Caroline and Ruth had put on their seatbelts, looking terrified. Diana had thrown down her headset and was gripping the armrests of her chair. "Is it Hydra?" Beatrice heard her ask Howard, voice shaking.

"Impossible to tell right now, but I don't think they'd plan something this overt! The Luftwaffe is probably upset we're in their airspace. Listen, we're in luck: there's a lake not too far from here and the base camp is about half a mile out. Jump into it when I give the signal and—"

"Drop us into a  _what?"_ Diana screeched. "Don't you have parachutes?"

"No time!" Howard shouted. "I've done this before—it's deep enough and I can get about twenty feet above the surface. I take it everyone knows how to swim!"

"You ask us that now!" Caroline snapped. The airplane shuddered again and Beatrice could see the ground coming up toward them fast. The Messerschmitt was gaining on them, its nose glinting like an enormous needle in the sun. It unleashed a volley of bullets onto them; Beatrice could hear the hollow noise they made as they ricocheted off the metal. Her ears were aching from the pressure changes and she could barely hear, but that was the least of her worries. She could see the lake Howard had been talking about now, its waters perfectly placid and a rich, dark blue. The sun reflected off the surface, blinding her.

"You'll be arriving in style!" Howard called back to them. "Open the hatch and jump on the count of three!"

Caroline and Diana each grabbed a handle and wrenched it open; the sudden rush of wind was almost enough to make Beatrice fall over again. They were now so close to the ground that she could pick out individual trees. She saw a flash of red and white in the distance; squinting, she noticed that they were rows and rows of red crosses on top of at least two dozen canvas tents. Relief washed through her; that must be the field hospital.

When they were a few dozen feet above the lake and close enough to see their reflections in it, Howard whistled back to them. "Ready?"

Diana was leaning out the door first; before Howard even finished his sentence, she leaped out—Ruth shrieked—and landed in the water below. Her head popped up back instantly and she waved at them.

"One!"

Caroline was next; she yelled a hasty goodbye at Howard before neatly diving into the lake. Diana was already swimming over to help her.

"Two!"

Ruth appeared to lose her balance before she actually jumped, but she entered the water as smoothly as the other girls had. Beatrice stuck her head out the door to search for the Messerschmitt, but it was gone. She whipped her head back to look at Howard, who gave her a thumbs-up.

"Good luck, kid!" he yelled. "Your uncle is never to find out about this, you hear?"

"Fine by me!" Beatrice called back and turned her attention to the others. Diana and Caroline had already managed to get to the shore and Ruth was following suit. Beatrice herself was maybe fifteen feet above the water; she could swim, but not very well.

"Three!"

She was aware of how risky this maneuver was for Howard, and so tumbled out of the plane within half a second. There was a terrifying moment where all she could feel and hear was the sound of the wind whipping through her hair and ears, and then she hit the water hard. Water rushed up her nose and mouth—she'd forgotten to take a breath before jumping—and she struggled to stop her momentum, thrashing wildly for a moment before rising again. She began coughing almost as soon as her head broke the surface of the water, and she impatiently shook her hair out of her eyes.

Howard's plane was already beginning to climb again; Beatrice watched it rise until it was just a tiny glint in the sky before it disappeared completely.


	18. XVIII

The first pale streaks of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky when Beatrice's shift finally ended. She stumbled, bleary-eyed, across the camp to her tent where Diana and Caroline were just waking up.

"Where's Ruth?" Diana asked curiously when she saw that Beatrice was alone. Usually the two girls would walk back together.

"She started talking with a patient," Beatrice admitted, pulling off her cap and tossing it onto her cot. She glanced over at her musette bag where her off-duty olive fatigues were folded, before deciding she was too exhausted to even change out of her uniform. Thankfully it hadn't gotten stained that day with medicine, blood, or worse. Beatrice didn't have the energy to walk all the way down to the creek to wash her hair in her steel helmet if it was only a little wrinkled.

"Ruth, talking with a patient?" Caroline echoed in disbelief; if there was one fact that had been drilled into the nurses' heads, it was that they weren't to fraternize with their patients under any circumstances. Ruth seemed the least likely out of all of them to disobey this order. "I didn't know she was sweet on anyone."

Beatrice pulled her hair out of its chignon and collapsed onto her cot; never had its scratchy blanket and hard pillow felt so inviting. "I don't think she is," she mumbled into her pillow. "But that corporal sure was." And she was asleep before she could hear Caroline's reply.

The nurses worked twelve-hour shifts every day; there were no breaks on weekends or holidays. After all, the war didn't stop, so why should they? Food was eaten hurriedly, if there was time to eat at all, and their precious hours off were usually spent performing basic necessities, like eating, sleeping and bathing. Every month their schedules were switched, so as to prevent them from becoming too accustomed to working all night and sleeping during the day or vice versa. Beatrice and Ruth just happened to be the unlucky ones working night shifts that month.

Beatrice had barely gotten to know the layout of the camp before she was thrust into work, putting her theoretical knowledge to the test without any sort of fanfare. She had gone from reading about bullet wounds to treating them in a matter of days. The transition had been jarring, to say the least, but at least she had helped more than harmed.

She hoped.

The summer had passed in a hot, hazy blur, but Beatrice hadn't had any time to enjoy it. Her duties were her life now—taking care of the wounded. Checking vitals, preparing them for surgery, administering needles and medicine, changing bandages, monitoring overall health, and even helping them eat if they were too ill or injured. Sometimes she caught herself remembering a certain anatomy lesson during training, when the textbook they were studying had contained a rather detailed illustration of the male body and in-depth descriptions of each part. Beatrice had been embarrassed then just looking at it, and even more embarrassed when she'd had to write about it during an exam. Now she could only laugh at her own naïveté—any sort of modesty she'd had back then had completely vanished during the past twelve weeks, where undressing a patient was the least mortifying thing that could possibly happen when soldiers were brought in from the battlefield. Even so, there were some stories that Beatrice had heard about—and experienced firsthand—that she hoped never to see again.

She had memorized every one of the ward tents and their locations back to front, and felt certain she could navigate the camp with her eyes closed. When her shift ended, it was time to sleep, after which the whole day would begin all over again. She was very grateful to be sharing a tent with her friends, but most of the time they were so busy they barely had time to talk to each other, even when they were on shared duty.

Just as she was getting used to one place, they would pack the entire hospital up and move, which usually took a whole day to accomplish successfully. This was done not only to be closer to the front lines, but to prevent an enemy ambush if they discovered the hospital's whereabouts. This usually happened every three or four weeks, and Beatrice had already lost count of how many countries they had been to. France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Sokovia, Austria...she thought they were in Italy now, but she couldn't be certain. The landscapes had all blended into one for her. She wondered if this was supposed to be making up for the twenty-three years she had never left New York.

As the summer wore on, the days began to get shorter and there was a noticeable chill in the air early mornings. Beatrice had begun to worry about how they would cope once winter came around, but Diana told her that most of the people at the camp had already done it for two winters and survived; besides, they knew how to treat frostbite. Beatrice found that she would rather hope the war ended before then, although the fighting was still going strong, not just in Europe, but in the Pacific and Africa as well.

But perhaps the thing she worried about the most—when she had  _time_ to worry—was the alarming lack of letters she had received from both Steve and Bucky. In fact, she had gotten a grand total of zero from either of them. At first she had chalked it up to a mistake on the postal service's part, but after several of her own letters to them had gone unanswered—and she'd gotten a letter from  _Ivan_ , of all people—she had been forced to conclude that they simply weren't writing to her. Although Beatrice knew it was outlandish to even think so, she couldn't help the thoughts that crossed her mind at the most vulnerable of times, telling her that they'd already forgotten about her, that they didn't actually care, that they were glad to be rid of her. And every time Beatrice tried to tell herself that wasn't true, but the alternative—that Bucky had been killed in action or Steve had been stricken by some terrible illness—was even worse.

The next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake, and Diana's voice was saying in her ear, "Wake up. There was a landmine explosion on the front and at least a hundred men were injured. Doctor Flynn wants all of us on duty now."

Beatrice groaned into her pillow and shook the sleep from her eyes, rolling right over onto the floor. The sun streaming into the tent was too bright and, glancing at her wristwatch, saw that it was just after noon. At least she had gotten some sleep.

Ruth was curled up in her own cot, still sleeping soundly with a tiny smile on her face. Diana put a finger to her lips when Beatrice looked quizzically back at her. "She came back an hour ago. What Flynn doesn't know won't hurt him."

Beatrice agreed, but part of her was still longing to do the same and ignore orders. Surely one more nurse wouldn't make that much of a difference…but Diana was waiting for her, and she was already in her uniform. Suddenly grateful that she hadn't decided to change out of it, she pushed herself to her feet, grabbed her cap, and followed the other girl outside.

Having worked nights for so long, the brightness of the sun hurt Beatrice's eyes, and she blinked spots away as she followed Diana to the hospital tents. It was clear that  _something_  had happened while she'd been asleep: doctors, nurses, and medics were crowded around numerous ambulances and a convoy of jeeps that were parked just outside the camp, helping down soldiers and escorting them into the tents. It was alive with noise and commotion.

As soon as they walked into the first ward tent, they were met with a flurry of activity. Nurses hurried back and forth, their arms filled with bandages and morphine syrettes, and doctors rushed past them, wheeling patients in gurneys in and out of the connected tents. Beatrice and Diana quickly stepped aside as two medics passed carrying a litter; the soldier lying on it was howling in pain and clutching at his leg, which was nothing more than a bloody stump below the knee. Her stomach twisted.

"Yeah, there'll be a lot of amputations today," Diana said. Her face was white. "Let's hope there aren't any more landmines buried around here."

Beatrice felt helpless, staring at the chaos before her with no way to stop it. Scenes like this happened every day, and the best thing they could hope for was to be able to erase all traces of a wound, but the memory itself could never be forgotten. Working the night shifts especially, Beatrice would often hear the soldiers calling out for their mothers. Every one of them looked lost and afraid, like they were little boys again, and it broke her heart every time. Beatrice was beginning to understand how war had irreversibly changed her father. Most of the G.I.'s who had been discharged due to combat fatigue had the same empty look in their eyes. Seeing it firsthand didn't absolve John Hartley of his actions, but it helped Beatrice understand him a little bit more.

"Murphy! Hartley!" a gruff voice sounded, and the camp's head doctor came striding toward them, his coattails billowing out behind him and a stethoscope still in his ears. Flynn looked sterner than Beatrice had ever seen him. "Glad to see you finally decided to show up. There are more men requiring surgery than we have doctors to operate on them. Triage the new arrivals and see how desperately they need medical attention. Let me know about any outstanding cases. Some of them just need morphine and rest. I think many are in shock."

"Yes, sir," Beatrice and Diana said in unison. Flynn gave them a quick nod before hurrying off to another tent. Beatrice could see Caroline in the corner administering an IV drip, and several of the other nurses she had become friendly with were practically running from bed to bed. It was clear the hospital was woefully understaffed for the demand that had suddenly been placed on it. She just hoped they had enough plasma on hand.

"A lot of them are going to have to be taken to evacuation hospitals," she muttered to Diana. "Make notes on their charts if we won't be able to properly take care of them here."

Diana nodded. "You take the right side, I'll take the left," she said. "Good luck."

"You too," Beatrice told her, and both women hurried over to the nearest beds.

The first patient Beatrice examined was little more than a boy, around seventeen or eighteen, she guessed. He had to have lied on his enlistment forms. With his ashy blond hair and blue eyes, he reminded her painfully of Steve. Thankfully he didn't seem to be too badly wounded: a long cut scraped the length of his face and he was coughing—from all the dust in the air, Beatrice assumed. He watched her with wide, frightened eyes as she dabbed a cloth in antiseptic and disinfested the cut.

"Am I going to die, ma'am?" he asked her, flinching away at the sting of the alcohol. Like Steve, even when he was injured and likely in a great deal of pain, he was still unfailingly polite.

Beatrice drew back and smiled as reassuringly as she could at him. "No, you're not. You just got a bit scraped up, that's all. You'll be back on the field in no time."

Somehow, the boy's eyes went even wider. "But I don't want to go back there," he said, and reached out to grip Beatrice's wrist with surprising force. "Don't make me go back!"

Pity rose in her chest; she knelt down beside the gurney and gently untangled his fingers from her wrist. "What's your name?" she asked softly.

"Private Matthew O'Reilly, ma'am," he gulped; she could tell he was trying hard not to cry, and averted her eyes from his face.

"Then, Private, I'll talk to the head doctor and see what I can do," Beatrice said. "He'll take a look at you and if he gives permission, you'll be sent back home, okay?"

The boy nodded, still terrified, but she could see his shoulders relaxing. After pouring him a glass of water to clear out the dust in his throat, she smiled again at him and retreated before she could promise him anything else. She would talk to Flynn about him—but whether or not the doctor would actually listen to her was another story. He wasn't cruel, though, and if he saw how young and frightened the boy really was he might take pity on him. If not, Beatrice suspected he might have a nervous breakdown on the field and then he would be sent right back to the hospital, at which point the doctor would have no choice but to send him home as he would be in no fit state to fight.

She went through the rest of the row fairly quickly; like Flynn had said, most of the men who were badly injured had already been taken into surgery. A majority of the rest—the lucky ones—had minor cuts and scrapes like Matthew, and a few had sprained ankles or wrists. Beatrice set as many of them as she could and left notes for Flynn in case he wanted to check on them later. She noted that most of the men did appear to be in shock; half of them didn't even acknowledge her and the other half merely watched her with dull eyes. The hospital occasionally received groups like this one, whose men looked and acted like they had been to hell and back. It was even worse than the more boisterous ones who made advances on the nurses. At least then Beatrice knew they still had some spark of personality left in them.

When she stopped at the second-to-last bed, she noted with surprise that the person sitting on it looked completely uninjured, the dirt on his field service uniform the only giveaway that he'd been on the battlefield. He had no visible cuts or bruises and was holding himself normally. He was older than most of the men she'd seen that day, well into his thirties, solidly built with ginger hair and a matching bushy mustache. His eyes were very alert as he told her, "There's no need to look at me, nurse. I escaped the worst of it. But you have to help Jimmy—he's really hurt."

Beatrice looked him up and down with a critical eye, and had to conclude that he was telling the truth. "Then why are you here?" she asked.

The man jerked his head in the direction of the last bed in the row. "I had to make sure Jimmy got here okay," he said. "He could barely walk."

As if on cue, a bout of coughing sounded from the next bed. Alarmed, Beatrice hurried over to it, where a young man was struggling to sit up. She quickly put a hand on his shoulder, trying to force him to lie back down. "Please don't overexert yourself," she told him. "I—"

But the rest of her sentence died in her throat as an achingly familiar pair of gray eyes flickered up to hers.

Every muscle in Beatrice's body froze.  _"Bucky?"_ she choked.

He was holding himself up by his elbows, his eyes locked on her face. "Rosie," he said, and his voice sounded alarmingly faint. "Rosie…what are you doing here?"

Beatrice's trained eye took in his appearance: his uniform was disheveled and just as filthy, if not more, than anyone else's; he was favoring his left side, his arm curled over his abdomen as if he had a stomachache, and his forehead was shining with sweat. There were spots of pink high on his cheeks. "I'm a nurse, remember?" she asked him, forcing herself to remain professional as she placed a hand on his forehead. She could tell even without the aid of a thermometer that he was feverish; his skin was burning.

"You shouldn't be here," said Bucky; he was staring at her as if he couldn't quite believe she was real. "It's dangerous."

"Not as dangerous as what you got yourself into," Beatrice replied. She didn't want to take her eyes off him even for a second, but his friend was right: he desperately needed medical attention. Aside from a bruise on his jaw, his face and neck appeared uninjured. She grabbed a compress and brought it to the nearby washbasin, rinsing it with cold water before returning to Bucky and placing it on his forehead.

"I think his wound got infected," a voice said, and she turned to see the man on the next bed watching them. "A piece of shrapnel hit him in the side. He managed to pull it out but there was no time to take care of it."

If that was the case, it would certainly explain the fever. Beatrice glanced down at his left side, where a dark bloodstain was clearly visible against his uniform. "Can you take off your shirt?" she asked him.

Even through the dirt that caked his face, she could still see him attempt to smirk. "Never thought you'd ask that, Rosie," he said, his breathing shallow.

Beatrice tried to put on the no-nonsense tone she often had to employ with her other patients. "If you don't do it, I will," she said.

There was a spark, albeit tiny, in his eyes as he replied, "I'd actually prefer that, to be honest." But he reached up and undid the buttons, pulling off his shirt with a wince that he tried to hide. Beatrice felt cold horror drop into her stomach at the sight of his chest: there was a long, ugly scar that ran down the length of his side, caked in dried blood and pus still oozing from the wound.

"Oh, Bucky," Beatrice breathed as she ripped open a package of sulfonamide powder and shook it onto the wound. She barely even registered the fact that he was half-naked. "That's going to need stitches."

"You think?" Bucky asked, trying to lighten the mood. "I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Nearly got blown up."

"Another few feet and you  _would_ have gotten blown up," Beatrice said. "You were lucky." She hurried over to the nearest supply crate to retrieve more antiseptic and a needle and thread, trying to conceal how badly her hands were shaking.

"Yeah, well, let's see how long that'll last," Bucky muttered when she returned, moving onto his side so that she could reach him better. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began to disinfect the wound, keeping her touch as light as possible. She felt him shudder under her fingers—she hoped he wasn't in too much pain.

Bucky watched her thread the needle without any hint of trepidation; it suddenly struck her that he trusted her completely with his wounds. A warm, pleasant feeling flooded through her at this realization, and she had to hide her smile. "You're still wearing the bracelet I gave you," he said. She saw an answering smile fighting to work its way at the corners of his mouth, despite the pain he must be in.

"Yes," she said, moving her hand so that the gemstones caught the light. "I've never taken it off."

There was a strange look in his eyes—a kind of tenderness—that she had only seen when they had kissed at the dance hall, and Beatrice had to tell herself that it was just the fever or she would become completely distracted. She heard Bucky suck in a deep breath as she threaded the needle under his skin, hoping that he could see the apology on her face.

"I never thought I'd see you again, Rosie," he admitted. "I thought I was dead for sure when I saw you here."

Beatrice was glad she was too busy concentrating on the stitches so he couldn't see how red her own face was. "I thought you were dead, too," she said. "I hadn't even gotten one letter from you or Steve."

He was silent for a moment, and when she chanced a glance at him he looked almost guilty. "I meant to," he said. "But I got my orders two weeks after you left. Been here ever since. I don't know about Steve, though."

Beatrice frowned. "You mean you haven't gotten any letters from him, either?"

"Not a thing. I figured they'd gotten lost or something."

"You don't think something happened to him, do you?" They shared a glance, and Beatrice saw her own worry reflected in his eyes.

"I doubt it," Bucky said, but she wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. "He's probably still angry he's stuck in Brooklyn."

 _He's the lucky one,_ Beatrice thought, but didn't dare to say it aloud. They lapsed into silence; she could feel Bucky's eyes on her while she worked, closing the wound. She hoped his fever would break soon; if it didn't by that night she would have to call Flynn.

Someone cleared their throat beside them, and Beatrice momentarily glanced up from her work to see the ginger-haired man watching them. "So you're the girl Jimmy's always talking about. Thought you two were married or something the way he went on. I was beginning to get sick of you and I'd never even met you." He chuckled.

"Shut up, Dugan," Bucky growled.

"I wasn't aware that you changed your name to Jimmy," Beatrice said lightly, unable to hide her pleased grin at Dugan's words.

"I didn't. This oaf here doesn't seem to realize that my name is Bucky." He hissed as the needle caught a particularly tender spot.

"Don't get smart with me, kid. I can kick your ass from here to Rome," Dugan replied, and winked at Beatrice. She fought to hide her smile as Bucky scowled.

"Wanna bet?" he asked.

"Hey, hey, looks like Steve's had too much of an influence on you," Beatrice said. She couldn't help but notice that he was changed from the boy she'd known in Brooklyn—not different, exactly, but altered, as if the war had brought out a previously dormant side of him. A bit harder at the edges, a bit tougher, but perhaps even more vulnerable. She could see it in his eyes. The past three months had colored him in more around the edges, maybe a bit grayer. Then again, who didn't change during a war? Beatrice briefly wondered how many German soldiers Bucky had killed, and shuddered away from the thought.

She finished closing the stitches just as it became clear that Bucky was fighting to stay awake. His playful banter with Dugan had ended when another nurse had come over to investigate. Dugan was now insisting that he'd had a toothache for weeks and could barely eat through the pain, at which point the nurse had made him lie down so that a doctor could inspect his mouth. "I don't need a doctor, I need a dentist," he protested, but the nurse hadn't paid him any attention and went to fetch someone else. Bucky had taken off the compress and lowered his head so that it was resting on the pillow, but still hadn't taken his eyes away from her. He looked like he couldn't believe she was actually there. Beatrice was a bit unnerved by it, but chalked it up to the fact that he still had a high fever.

"There," she said, threading the last stitch and surveying her handiwork. The area around the wound was still red and angry, and the purplish bruises were going to last a while, but it looked nowhere near as dire as it had twenty minutes ago. "You just need to give it some time to heal."

"Thank you, Rosie," Bucky said. He grinned at her, although it seemed an effort just to do that. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Get taken care of by another nurse, I assume," Beatrice replied, standing up to dispose of the needle and thread and grab a new pair of gloves. Looking around for Diana and Caroline, she saw that they were both busy with their own patients and hadn't noticed how long she'd spent at one bed in particular. Relieved, she ducked under the counter to fill a syringe with penicillin and discreetly hid it behind her back when she returned to him.

As she passed Dugan's bed, he held a hand out for her to shake and she took it; her own hand was dwarfed by his. "I'm Officer Timothy Dugan of the 69th Infantry Regiment, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat to her. "I've taken it upon myself to take care of your Bucky before he gets himself killed."

"He's not  _my_ Bucky," Beatrice said, although her cheeks warmed at Dugan's words all the same. "But thank you."

"Don't listen to a word he says," Bucky called over to her. "Took me three months stuck in a foxhole with him to do it, but I finally managed."

Beatrice rounded the bed to his side, relieved that he hadn't seen the syringe yet. "Well, you do have a lot of practice with Steve," she admitted. "And I wanted to ask you…how did Rebecca's wedding go? Are she and Ernest still living in Brooklyn Heights?"

A small but genuine smile crossed his face at the mention of his sister. "Yeah, they are," he said. "It was a really nice wedding. I told them to name their first kid after me in case I never live to see the end of this damn war."

Something cold and icy flooded Beatrice's veins. "Don't say that," she said as casually as she could. "You're just delirious. You need to sleep."

"There's no use denying it, Rosie. One wrong move and I'll be as dead as— _ow!"_ Bucky cursed as Beatrice took the opportune moment to inject him with the needle she'd picked up; thankfully for her he hadn't put his shirt back on yet. He stared up at her, betrayal in his eyes. "What the hell was that?"

"Penicillin," Beatrice said evenly, placing the empty syringe down on the tray and pulling her gloves off one by one. "It'll stop the wound from becoming infected again." She placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back down onto the bed. "Please go to sleep, Bucky. It won't do you any good to stay awake and besides, I have other patients to check on."

"You'll come back before they kick me out of here though, right?" Bucky asked, apparently deciding that she was correct and it was no use to fight his exhaustion. His tone was teasing, but Beatrice thought there might have been some real anxiety to it.

"I promise," she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand reassuringly. His answering grip was firm before his arm slowly relaxed and his eyes drifted shut. Soon he was breathing deeply and Beatrice thought that he didn't look as flushed as he had earlier.

She checked his vitals and made a few notes on his chart before reluctantly drawing screens around his cot so that he wouldn't be woken up by Dugan, who was howling in pain as a doctor examined his teeth. Perhaps he hadn't been lying after all, Beatrice thought. Nevertheless, she didn't want to stick around and find out; she'd seen enough of that when she'd worked in a dentist's office. Strange how far away that time of her life seemed, as if it had happened to a different Beatrice.

She was still pondering over that as she checked on her other patients—all of whom were luckily in stable conditions and the young boy, Matthew, was even well enough to eat—and only then did she realize the frantic atmosphere in the tent had abated somewhat. There were nowhere near as many nurses and doctors running around, and no more men were being brought in. She hoped that was the end of the landmine survivors; shuddering at the thought of what could have happened if Bucky had been standing in any other place when it went off, she turned around to see Flynn standing right behind her.

"Good afternoon, Nurse Hartley," the doctor said as she quickly snapped to attention. "I must commend you and your fellow nurses on your efficiency today. Without you we would not have saved as many men as we did."

Beatrice was flattered at the rare compliment. "Thank you, Doctor," she said. "It is what we're here for, after all. I take it there weren't many casualties, then?"

Flynn shook his head. "Not as many as we expected—less than a dozen. The number of amputees is quite high, though. We'll have to send a lot of these boys home."

His words made Beatrice remember the promise she had made to one of those very boys. "Sir," she began, "One of my patients, a Private Matthew O'Reilly, is very distraught at having to go back out onto the front lines, and I told him that you would speak to him. I do not believe he is legally authorized to fight, either."

The doctor nodded, and Beatrice knew he understood what she meant. "I'll look into it," he replied. "But as for you, Hartley, you have the rest of the day off since you've worked nearly two shifts in a row. If you see MacGregor around, tell her that the same goes for her."

Beatrice's eyes widened. At least he hadn't noticed that Ruth was missing. "Yes, sir," she said obediently. "And thank you."

Flynn inclined his head to her once in a silent dismissal before sweeping away to find the rest of the nurses. Beatrice was immensely grateful for the chance to get some more sleep, but she didn't know if she could bring herself to leave Bucky. Fortunately, when she checked on him one last time he was still unconscious and looked as if he would be that way for quite some time, so she took the opportunity to quietly retreat and make her way back to her own tent.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, bathing the clouds in a brilliant crimson hue, as Beatrice made her way across the camp. She stifled a yawn; she had become used to just waking up at sunset rather than going to bed.

Ruth was awake when Beatrice stole inside, ready to change out of her uniform and into more comfortable fatigues. The other girl was lying on her stomach listening to the radio; soft music played from the speakers as the announcer stopped talking. As soon as she heard movement behind her she shot up, looking relieved when she saw who had joined her. "I thought you were Diana," she admitted. "She wasn't going to cover for me today without asking a million questions. Where were you?"

"A landmine went off at the front and a hundred soldiers were brought over here," Beatrice explained as she began to change out of her uniform. "Flynn wanted all the nurses on duty."

Ruth looked stricken. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"We figured you needed some sleep," said Beatrice. She paused before adding, "At least that's what Diana said."

The other girl turned pink. "I was just comforting Nicholas, I swear! He said I reminded him of his sister."

Beatrice smiled. "Relax," she said. "It's not a crime. Just don't let Flynn catch you." She wasn't one to talk, after all—her time with Bucky had proven that. But then again, she had been close with him before either of them were sent to Europe…

After she finished dressing, she dragged a comb through her hair and splashed some cold water on her face from her canteen. The song on the radio had ended and the announcer had begun to speak again, declaring that Captain America, the USO's new poster boy, would soon be making a visit to Europe to boost the morale of the troops. Beatrice was doubtful that he would be able to do so, but at least he was increasing the sale of the war bonds at an extraordinary rate—at least according to the snatches of conversation she'd heard amongst the doctors. Yawning hugely, she curled up on her cot and fell asleep almost immediately to the sound of singing and thunderous applause as the radio broadcasted his latest show in New York.

* * *

For the second time in a row, she was awoken by Diana shaking her shoulder. Beatrice tried to push her arm away, but it was no use—Diana's grip only tightened. "Beatrice, it's either this or I tell James—oh, sorry,  _Bucky_ —that you don't want to talk to him before he leaves."

That woke Beatrice up—she shot up so fast she nearly sent Diana flying. "Leaving?" she demanded. "But he just got here—"

"Yesterday," Diana explained. She looked smug. "You slept the entire night and most of the morning, too."

Startled, Beatrice realized that the brightness in the tent was far more powerful than any flashlight could be. Caroline and Ruth were both absent. "Oh, no," she moaned, immediately scrambling out of bed. "Flynn only gave me one shift off. He's going to kill me."

"Don't worry about Flynn," said Diana. "I figure Bucky's going to be even more upset if you don't say goodbye to him. He kept asking about you. Wouldn't let any of us touch him." She regarded Beatrice with an almost envious look. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Beatrice asked, as she nearly put on her uniform backwards in her rush to get ready.

"Make a man that crazy about you."

Beatrice paused in the middle of buttoning up her blouse and pivoted around to stare at Diana. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe he imprinted on me. Like a duckling."

Diana didn't smile, and Beatrice sighed. "Look, Di, I'm sorry I didn't tell you that he was there, but he was asleep and I—"

"It's fine," her friend said, waving a hand. "There was no time anyway. You've snagged a good one. I hope you appreciate that. I haven't seen a man so handsome since—"

"I'm sure you haven't," Beatrice said loudly to stop her, and placed a light hand on her shoulder as she passed her. She knew, and could even sympathize with, Diana's plight. Caroline had her fiancé, Ruth had the young G.I. she was talking to, and Beatrice herself had…whatever it was she had with Bucky. Diana's relationships with men, though frequent, were also fleeting. "Honestly, I think these things happen by chance more often than not," she said, although she was aware it was hardly reassuring advice. "You'll find someone eventually."

Diana's smirk turned wicked, but there was still a hint of residual sadness in her eyes. "Oh, I know," she said. "I was just upset that my usual tricks didn't work on him. That's never happened before."

Beatrice's eyebrows shot up. "Well, he was delirious the last time I saw him," she remarked. "I can't think of any reason why he wouldn't be making eyes at you. That's his favorite pastime with women."

"Oh, I can think of a reason," Diana said, and threw a pillow at her. Beatrice barely managed to escape being hit by it.

She barely remembered the short walk to the first ward tent—she was too eager to see Bucky again. She couldn't think of any reason why they would be leaving the field hospital so soon, seeing as how so many of the men needed urgent medical care. And if they were sent back to fight while they were still ill, a vast majority wouldn't last very long on the field. Bucky was right—their fates were all down to chance—but the chances of surviving became even slimmer when one added illness into the equation.

Beatrice forced herself not to go straight to Bucky when she entered the tent, in case Flynn or another one of the surgical technicians saw her eagerness. Instead she did her usual rounds first, making a point to visit Matthew, who wasn't at his cot. His chart was still present, though, which led Beatrice to believe that he was well enough to be walking around and getting his own food at the field kitchen. Nevertheless, she glanced around to make sure nobody was watching before placing a Hershey's chocolate bar on his pillow. She hoped Flynn had spoken to him.

Dugan wasn't on his cot either, and Beatrice wasn't sure if  _that_ was a good or bad sign. The screens were still in place around Bucky's bed. Beatrice made a show of clearing her throat and shuffling her feet before slipping past them, shielding herself— _them_ —from the outside world.

Bucky was dressed in his uniform again, sitting on the edge of the bed and bent over as he tied his boots. He immediately raised his head when he saw her approaching, and if Beatrice had more confidence, she would have even thought that his expression brightened when he saw her. "Rosie," he greeted; somehow the simple, affectionate name brought back memories of a happier time. "I thought you'd never come back."

"I did promise, didn't I?" she asked, moving to check his chart, but Bucky stopped her with a gentle touch on her wrist.

"Did your friend tell you what happened?" he asked.

"Yes," admitted Beatrice. "She said that you were being ordered out."

Bucky nodded. "My unit's moving again. To Azzano. The general ordered everyone able to walk back out on the front."

"But you had a fever. That wound isn't going to heal properly for weeks—"

He put his free hand on his side, as if he had already forgotten it was there. "I know. I tried to argue with him, but he wasn't having it—said there aren't enough men as it is."

Beatrice swallowed back the lump in her throat, knowing he was right and it would do her no good to protest—the general's orders had to be followed, and both she and Bucky had to defer to their superiors. She tried to smile at him. "So this is goodbye, again?"

"Hopefully not for three months," he said. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "Promise you'll wait for me?"

Beatrice took a deep breath. "I'll wait for you forever, Bucky Barnes."

He took her hands, pulling her toward him so that she was standing in the space between his legs. "I'm counting on that," he murmured, and brought her face down to his.

Their second kiss was nothing like the first—while that had been sweet and almost hesitant, this was wild, unrestrained, almost desperate. Bucky's mouth was hot and insistent against hers, kissing her as if she was the only solid thing left in the world. She could feel stubble scratching against her chin, and she took his face in both of her hands, pulling him even closer. She tried not to press too hard against him in fear of aggravating the wound in his side, but Bucky was having none of that: he was running his hands up and down her back and her sides, sending shivers from the top of her head all the way down to her toes. Every time they broke apart, even for the tiniest second, he was gasping something that Beatrice realized was her name. She deepened the kiss even more, throwing away all her inhibitions as if they had never existed in the first place. Bucky groaned against her mouth, the sound faint but audible, and she felt his tongue lightly sweep across her lips. Another thrill ran through her, and she opened her mouth as he caught her lower lip with his teeth. They were kissing in a way Beatrice had never thought she would do with anyone, let alone Bucky. She took her hands away from his face only to twine them around his neck, grasping the chain that held his dog tags. She didn't care how forward she was being—all she thought and wanted was him. Her hands trailed down his chest and abdomen, feeling the muscles just underneath his shirt—and then Bucky shuddered violently. Her hands stilled on his waist and she reluctantly broke the kiss. His mouth was red and swollen, his hair completely disheveled.

"Rosie," he gasped. "If you keep on doing that I'm never gonna be able to stop."

Beatrice stared at him, dazed—why did he look so embarrassed?—and then it suddenly clicked. She hadn't realized just how low her hands had been. "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, jumping away from him.

"That's the last thing you need to apologize for, doll," Bucky said; his eyes were heavy-lidded. He slowly got to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. It was clear that he desperately wanted to finish what they had started. Why did she have the curse of embarrassing not only other people, but herself as well? Beatrice stared up at him, her mind a muddled mess. The thought of leaving him now caused her an almost physical pain. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest.  _I love you,_ she thought, but didn't dare to say the words aloud. She could barely even admit them to herself.

"This is the time where I would ask you to go steady with me," he murmured.

"Do you usually kiss girls like that and then ask them to go steady?" she asked, a bit breathlessly. Since when had she turned into one of the heroines from the cheap romance novels her mother used to read?

"Never, actually," Bucky admitted. "And I've never asked a girl to go steady without going on a date with her first."

"Well, I think that can be excused, considering the circumstances," Beatrice said. They were standing toe-to-toe, and she realized that Bucky had moved closer to her. She leaned into him again, remembering too late that probably wouldn't help him any, and cupped his face in her hands, running her thumbs over the dark circles under his eyes. "I say this as your… _friend_ , and not as your nurse, Bucky, but you really, really need to sleep more."

"Difficult to do that out there," Bucky said, sucking in a sharp breath. "Don't tell Dugan, but when I can't sleep I think of you. And Steve. And Brooklyn."

"So do I," Beatrice whispered. "What do you think it'll be like when we get home?"  _If we get home?_

"I don't know," Bucky said. There was a weariness in his voice and in his eyes that Beatrice was sure was mirrored in her own.

"Barnes!" Dugan's sudden shout made both of them turn, and he stuck his head around the screen. If he was surprised to see them in a close embrace, he didn't show it. "You better be outside within sixty seconds or you're gonna have to dig the latrine."

Beatrice noted with some relief that he appeared to have gotten his tooth fixed. Bucky reluctantly stepped away from her, looking her up and down one more time. "Be careful," Beatrice said, but it was so obvious and cliché that she could have kicked herself for saying it. Some part of her wanted to go and watch him leave, but she also knew that she wouldn't be able to bear it. Better to delude herself into thinking that he was just outside the tent and could come walking in any minute.

Bucky took that moment to lean over and give her a brief but hard, driving kiss, in full view of everyone else in the tent. Beatrice blanched, but luckily nobody seemed to have noticed. "I promise," he whispered as he drew back, straightening up and giving her a mock-salute as he began to walk away. She watched his retreating figure, feeling very much as if a part of herself was walking away, too.


	19. XIX

A cold autumn wind blew through the camp as Beatrice pushed her way against the gale, eyes watering and teeth chattering. Even wearing a coat over her uniform, she was still freezing. A cold front had moved in the previous day, bringing with it gusting winds, steel-gray skies, and the promise of rain. Autumn had finally arrived for good, and though they had all been assured winters in this part of Italy weren't quite as harsh as the ones they were used to back home, it certainly didn't feel like it now. It looked like a storm was rolling in, and to make matters worse the hospital was packing up and moving the next day—to where exactly, Beatrice wasn't certain. At least a move meant that her shifts would be switched around and she would be working days again.

It had been weeks since the landmine incident; weeks since she had seen Bucky. They were well into October now, and though Beatrice knew that no news was good news, she couldn't stop herself from worrying almost obsessively about him. She'd asked Flynn to inform her if Bucky's name ever showed up on the missing, or worse, casualty lists, and although the doctor had agreed, she knew it could be months before she found out if anything had happened to him—Flynn certainly didn't have time to check the casualty list every day just for her. Nevertheless, the most she could do was hope and pray that she would never walk past the bodies of the dead that had been taken to the camp and see Bucky lying there. Then again, she had no idea where his company was now, or if his body would even be taken to her field hospital. For all she knew, they might not even be in Azzano anymore. Their chance meeting might have just been that—a coincidence. But even so, she couldn't help but search for him in the faces of every soldier she met.

"Nurse Hartley!"

Beatrice paused at the entrance to the recovery tent and glanced questioningly over at Flynn, who had come walking up to her. "Good morning, Doctor," she greeted him, offering a small smile.

As usual, he only acknowledged her welcome with a slight nod before beginning to speak. Holding out a clipboard to her, he said, "You asked me to monitor the status of Sergeant James Barnes. This just arrived today."

Beatrice's heart leapt into her throat before sinking all the way down to her feet. She thought she could see pity in Flynn's eyes. Hardly daring to take the clipboard, she flipped it over and saw that it was a list of names—there were  _hundreds_ of them—and all were in the 107th. All of them were listed as being MIA.

"Four hundred men were taken behind enemy lines a week ago," Flynn explained. "We're only receiving the news now. If they haven't shown up within a month, they'll be declared dead."

Out of the sea of names, there was one in particular that caught Beatrice's eye; she couldn't say herself how she managed to find it in the jumble of words. But there it was, plain as day:  _Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038. MIA._  Dugan's name was just below his.

The entire world seemed to tilt on its axis, the sudden loss of gravity sending the planet flying off into space untethered. Beatrice had never been so completely shocked in her life, not even when she had found Pryce's body or learned of Mrs. Banner's murder. Her mouth felt painfully dry, her lungs empty of air. She stared down at Bucky's name as if expecting the letters to magically rearrange themselves on the page. Her mind was scrambling for any other explanation—any other way that she wouldn't have to face the notion that he was probably gone forever. Her voice shook as she forced the words out. "Missing in action…but Bucky—Sergeant Barnes—isn't dead, is he? None of them are…"

Flynn shrugged. "Anything could have happened to them within the week. Recon photographs haven't discovered anything. Unfortunately, this is a common occurrence around this area of the country. It's heavily fortified by German and Italian troops. In fact, that list is the main reason we were given orders to pack up and move on."

Beatrice felt panic rise up in her throat. Her heart was beating very fast and she felt faintly dizzy. "But aren't you going to at least try to rescue them? If there's still a chance—"

"Hartley," Flynn answered, his voice firm, "That is not my decision to make. And even if it was, I would not authorize it. It's far too dangerous to risk more lives to find men who are likely dead or too weak to fight by now. You must compose yourself and carry on with your duties."

Beatrice stared at him uncomprehendingly. Surely he didn't expect her to plaster on a smile and pretend that everything was fine, did he? Not when one of the people she loved most in the entire world was missing, possibly even dead, and she had to go about her daily routine. She'd learned to carry on in the face of overwhelming odds throughout her life, but this was something she simply  _could not_ do.

Some part of her brain registered that whatever traces of pity had been on the doctor's face had now entirely vanished and been replaced by annoyance. " _Nurse_ Hartley, I hope this will serve as a reminder of why you are forbidden to become involved with any of the men—"

"HELP!"

The piercing cry stopped Flynn's lecture and jolted Beatrice back to reality. It had sounded from somewhere behind the hill at the south end of the camp, in the direction of the creek. Everyone milling around the tents stopped in their tracks and searched for the source of the noise.

Before anyone could speak, the shout sounded again—this time it wasn't a word, but a scream of pure agony that tore at Beatrice's ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Flynn pull out a handgun and hang it loosely at his side. Maybe someone was drowning, was all she could think.

A boy appeared at the crest of the hill—a boy with blond hair and a lanky frame—and Beatrice's stomach clenched as she recognized Matthew O'Reilly, who had become something of the hospital's mascot while he waited for his official notice of discharge. But he wasn't alone. Walking up just behind him was a figure dressed entirely in black—her first thought was that it was some sort of medieval armor. There was a bright patch of red on its arm, but she couldn't tell what it symbolized from her distance. It wore a helmet and a pair of thick goggles that obscured any view of its eyes. The only parts of its body visible were the nose and mouth. Beatrice wasn't sure that it was even human.

And it was holding a gun to Matthew's head. The boy was alternately screaming for help and crying, trying uselessly to struggle out of his captor's grasp.

Flynn and several of the other men began to stride toward them, pointing their own guns, but seemingly out of nowhere, a dozen jets of brilliant blue light hit each of their weapons, disintegrating them into nothingness. Beatrice stared in disbelief as more of the figures all dressed in the same black costumes began to slowly appear around the perimeter of the camp until they were completely surrounded. There had to be at least fifty of them—and they were all carrying machine guns.

"In the name of Hydra, you are ordered to surrender or every last one of you will perish," the one holding the gun to Matthew shouted. Beatrice was vaguely surprised by how ordinary, how human, the voice sounded. She wasn't sure what else she should have been expecting. But only one word stuck out to her:

_Hydra._

Her limbs began to shake madly, and she prayed that whoever was at the creek had the sense to run so they would stay far, far away from this—she had no idea where Diana, Caroline and Ruth were but she hoped they were hiding or had already escaped—

"The SSR will never surrender!" Flynn barked. Beatrice started in surprise—Flynn had been a member of the agency all along?

The figure tilted its head to the side, as if considering his words, before saying, "Very well, then, but Schmidt hoped this could have been done the easier way." And then he pulled the trigger.

The ensuing gunshot shattered the air, but Beatrice barely heard the noise. All she saw was a splattering of blood, and Matthew crumpled to the ground as if in slow motion. It seemed to take ages before his knees hit the grass, followed by his torso, as he lay prone. He hadn't even had time to react.

"No!" someone shouted, and only later did Beatrice realize that it had been her. Her brain had abruptly disconnected from her body, and she was running toward Matthew—toward the Hydra soldier. And she knew who it was that had taken Bucky and the rest of his unit prisoner.

She heard Flynn yelling after her, but she paid him no heed. Shoving her way through the assembled group of nurses and doctors, she sprinted toward the Hydra soldier with no other thought in her mind but to attack him. She felt like an animal, so terrified and in pain that it had no other choice but to react.

Of course, she had forgotten about the dozens of other guards, and one intercepted her before she had even reached the hill. Beatrice didn't even have time to register that she was likely staring death in the face before the guard pulled out a long black stick from its uniform, which was crackling with that same electric blue light, and hit her across the head with it.

A sudden, powerful current jolted through her entire body as if she had been electrocuted, and pain tore through her like she had been ripped in half, leaving her unable to comprehend anything but pure, unadulterated agony. Stars danced furiously in front of her eyes, and she felt herself twitching uncontrollably as she immediately collapsed onto the ground, the sky wheeling furiously above her the last thing she saw before she tumbled headfirst into darkness.


	20. XX

Beatrice was aware that she was conscious before she opened her eyes. Her thoughts were slow and sluggish, like trying to swim through mud, and a haze of memories hovered frustratingly just out of her grasp: Flynn telling her that Bucky was missing, the crack of a gunshot and Matthew falling to the ground, a Hydra agent attacking her—

_Hydra._

Beatrice's eyes snapped open, only to see a row of agonizingly bright lights shining down onto her face, red and purple dots moving across her vision as she closed her eyes against the pain before hesitantly opening them again. The lights refused to focus despite her rapid blinking.

Something touched the side of her head, in the spot where the glowing stick had hit her, and pain exploded throughout her skull. She sucked in a sharp, gasping breath and air tore painfully through her chest as panic seized up her lungs. Beatrice struggled to bring her hand up to her head, but her wrists were chained down by something cold and metallic. She yanked them upward, but she couldn't move more than a couple of inches. As sensation began to worm its way through her body again, she realized, with another icy jolt of horror, that her feet were bound, too. She couldn't even sit up.

"Struggling will only aggravate the wound, Fräulein," a quiet, heavily accented voice said from somewhere beside her. Beatrice's head whipped around in the direction of the noise as her vision finally cleared, the bright lights above her turning into recognizable fluorescent bulbs.

Her first thought was that she was in some sort of laboratory—she was strapped down onto an operating table, chains binding her hands and feet together, and a rolling table filled with scalpels and knives stood beside her. The walls were painted a harsh white and across the room there was a wash station with a still-dripping sink. The atmosphere was as severely clinical as Beatrice had ever seen.

It was only then that she realized there was a tube inserted into her arm, blood steadily flowing out of it and into a nearby plastic bag hanging on a metal pole, like the opposite of intravenous treatment. Momentarily forgetting about the other presence in the room, Beatrice cried out, the sound scraping hoarsely against her throat.

There was movement in the corner, and a short man with large round glasses and a white laboratory coat started toward her. He carried a scalpel in his right hand. This only made Beatrice's struggles begin anew, and this time the tube in her arm was dislodged. The man caught it before it could fall, and safely wheeled the pole away, the bag of her blood swinging as it did. Beatrice felt sick. "That is of no matter," he said, and she wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or her. "I have already received adequate samples for testing."

"Where am I?" Beatrice croaked; the words seem to take ages before they passed her lips.

The man glanced up at her from where he was furiously scribbling in a notebook; his glasses flashed as they momentarily caught the light. "Oh, forgive me," he said. "I have been inexcusably rude in not introducing myself. My name is Dr. Arnim Zola, and I am head of the medical and experimentation departments of Hydra."

Beatrice decided that she would rather have been captured by Adolf Hitler himself than Hydra. Unfortunately, it didn't seem as though life was giving her much of a choice.

Zola carefully placed the notebook back on the table and walked over to a still-struggling Beatrice, glancing down at her with the air someone might look at an insect. "Do not fret, Fräulein," he told her. "We are not planning to kill you yet. Do you think we would have gone to all of this trouble if we were?"

She reluctantly stopped trying to wrestle free of her bonds; her wrists were sore and chafed from rubbing against the metal. "We?"

Zola nodded. "Yes. My…superior will be arriving shortly."

Beatrice didn't think that it was possible for her to be even more terrified than she already was, but Zola's words proved her wrong. She forced her breathing into an even rhythm and tried to slow her frantic heart.

In all honesty, she supposed that this was inevitable. She couldn't run from Hydra forever, and her choices were either to stay in Europe where there were spies everywhere, or stay in New York and put her friends in danger while they searched for her. And they were bound to have found her sooner or later. Really, she thought that three months of borrowed time was more than enough. It had given her a chance to see Bucky again, after all. And if she were to die while keeping Ivan's and Henry's location safe, she guessed that there could have been worse ways to go. She had taken an oath of secrecy before being sworn in as an army nurse aiding the SSR. In a way, she was just doing what was expected of her. She had made her life count for something, even if she wouldn't be remembered for it.

"Herr Schmidt!" Zola announced, jumping up to greet someone walking into the laboratory. A smooth voice answered him in German, but Beatrice couldn't understand a word. She doubted she would be able to process what they were saying, anyway.

 _Schmidt._  Johann Schmidt. The leader of Hydra. Howard's voice echoed in her ears:  _"He's as mad as a hatter."_

She twisted her head around to see another, taller man standing next to Zola. Schmidt wore a long black coat that fell to his knees; his hair was as dark as his coat. He had harsh features and a mouth that seemed twisted in perpetual displeasure. There were no obvious effects of Erskine's failed serum in his appearance.

"Ah, Beatrice Hartley," he said in English, clasping his hands behind his back. "I have been waiting for quite some time to speak to you."

"What did you do to the camp?" she asked immediately.

Schmidt arched an eyebrow. "The field hospital? All of your friends are here too, though they are not getting the special treatment you are. You are of particular interest to us. We have been looking for you, you know. Unfortunately, we were not successful until today. Imagine my surprise when you were brought to us entirely by chance!"

As Beatrice's mind was coming up with the horrible scenarios in which her friends were being held prisoner, Schmidt walked over to the sink and poured a glass of water before carrying it back over to her. "Well, untie her, Dr. Zola!" he exclaimed, gesturing to the chain encircling her wrists. "We do not want to be too inhospitable to our guests, after all."

The doctor's eyes widened, but he obediently retrieved a key from a locked cabinet by the sink and hurried back over to her. There was a loud click as the handcuffs snapped open and Beatrice's right arm was suddenly free. Although she was still tied down, having one arm available to her made it slightly easier to push herself up into a sitting position and take the glass of water that Schmidt offered to her. She had no idea what game he was trying to play, but there had been no time for him to slip anything into the drink and her mouth was so dry she could barely speak. Beatrice downed it in one, not caring how pathetic she looked. Schmidt took the glass from her without a word and went to place it back on the counter. The silence in the laboratory grew, and Beatrice saw that Zola was looking quizzically at Schmidt, as if he had no better idea what the other man was doing than she did.

Schmidt turned back around with a flourish, his coat swishing around his ankles, and moved to face her. "Well, I can see that you have many questions. I might as well allow you to ask them now before it becomes my turn. Equal, shall we say?"

Zola was now looking at Schmidt with open confusion. With a surge of sudden confidence, Beatrice kept her eyes fixed on Schmidt's sneer as she said through gritted teeth, "Why did you kill them?"

Schmidt looked taken aback. "Who?"

"I think she means the landlord and the old lady," Zola said in a low voice.

Recognition lit up in his eyes. "Ah, yes! Mr. Pryce and Mrs. Banner. I must admit that I do not understand your anger. You cannot be upset that  _he_  is dead, and the woman had a few months at most to live, anyway."

With every fresh wave of anger that surged through her blood, Beatrice was becoming more and more outspoken. "Then why didn't you just take me instead?" she asked. "Surely that would have been easier."

Schmidt's eyes glinted with amusement. "You ask the same question as Dr. Zola here. You see, when one of our spies saw you with Ivan Romanov, we were of course intrigued. Herr Romanov is a high-ranking member of the American—what is it? Strategic Scientific Reserve—as you are well aware. Getting information from you would be easier, you see. So we did some… _investigating_  and learned that you were his niece...and that you are also close with Howard Stark. An easy target."

Despite the water she had just had, Beatrice's mouth was suddenly dry again. "I don't know anything," she immediately said. "I was friends with Dr. Erskine but he never told me anything—"

Schmidt laughed, the sound low and deadly. "Of course not. Erskine is dead."

Beatrice's mouth fell open. "Dead?" she asked in a strangled tone.

"Not before the SSR managed to successfully transfer the serum into a test subject. However, that subject will be the only one remaining, as we quickly disposed of Erskine before he could duplicate the formula again. We also lost one of our best men. Unfortunate, but accidents do happen…" Schmidt seemed unconcerned.

Beatrice's mind was racing. So what Howard had told her on the plane was true, and the SSR had managed to create their own super-soldier—at the cost of Erskine's life. "So what do you want me for? Tell you all I know so you can try to recreate the formula again?"

"Of course not," Schmidt scoffed. "The serum is of no use to us anymore—let one soldier try to stop all of Hydra! We have a weapon the Americans never even dreamed of. No, you have not outlived your usefulness yet. As it so happens, Ivan has information I require that no other member of the SSR can contribute."

"And you want me to tell you what it is," Beatrice said. "I already said that I have no idea what my uncle does—"

"Once again, you are not listening," Schmidt replied, a dangerous edge to his voice. He slammed his fist so hard onto the table that it splintered, cracks appearing on the surface. Beatrice flinched, eyes wide, and even Zola took a step back. Schmidt's face was red with anger, but it wasn't his skin that was red. Something was glowing almost translucently from within, and it terrified Beatrice more than any threat he had uttered so far. "I know you are in correspondence with him. I know that he is in Russia. So you must tell me where he is, and I will let you go free."

She immediately knew he was lying; he wouldn't have brought her all the way here if he was planning to release her just as quickly. "What makes you think I'll tell you?" she asked, injecting as much contempt as she could into her voice. "Besides, he didn't tell me where he was going," she lied. "Probably to prevent me from telling you anything in case I got captured."

Beatrice saw something dangerous alight in Schmidt's eyes, saw his arm draw back, and she didn't have any time to brace herself before he backhanded her across the face. Pain exploded through her head again as she felt her nose crack and blood began to gush out of it like a fountain. Beatrice let out a strangled cry, and Schmidt's arm was just as quickly shoved against her mouth, choking her. His face, twisted with fury, looked almost inhuman. "Do you think I cannot tell when I am being lied to?" he spat, and shook her violently. "The ignorant Americans did not teach you that skill, did they?"

"With all due respect, Herr Schmidt," Zola said hesitantly, hovering at the edge of Beatrice's field of vision, "Perhaps she truly does not know the whereabouts of her uncle. But she may be aware of the myths."

Schmidt's eyes flashed. "You are wrong on both counts, Dr. Zola," he announced without taking his eyes off Beatrice, who didn't dare to reach up and wipe the blood that was pouring from her nose down into her mouth. "First of all, they are not  _myths._ Second, she would not be acting so defiant if she did not know anything." He suddenly let go of Beatrice and she relaxed—before just as quickly spinning back around and giving her a hard blow to the side of her face. Her head snapped around, a haze of black obscuring her vision, and this time she really did scream. She couldn't think through the pain anymore.

"Now tell me where he is," Schmidt spat through gritted teeth, his voice very close to Beatrice's ear. She could feel her eyes watering madly. "Leningrad, perhaps? Or…" He smirked cruelly. "Stalingrad?"

It was almost a blessing that Beatrice was in so much pain she couldn't react at all to his question. She was only half-aware of him kneeling beside her, gripping tightly onto her wrist so she couldn't thrash around blindly. When her head had cleared enough for her to understand his question, she muttered, "I don't  _know."_

Expecting him to strike her again, she cringed away, waiting for the blow—but it never came. Beatrice tentatively opened one eye to see Schmidt storming toward the door, knocking the array of instruments off the rolling tray as he did. Zola jumped as they all scattered onto the floor. "Bring her to the isolation ward," he ordered. "See how long she lasts without food or water. When she is ready to confess, send for me at once."

"Of course," Zola said, watching Schmidt leave with a wide-eyed stare. Without another glance at Beatrice, he scurried over to an intercom on the wall and began speaking in rapid-fire German. Within ten seconds, a guard with no distinguishing features other than his uniform had walked into the room and made for Beatrice. She felt the chains encircling her snap away of their own accord, and she was finally free. But she was frozen to the spot.

Up close, she could see that emblazoned on the sleeve of the uniform was a red skull with snakes spilling from its mouth. Beatrice vaguely made the connection between the symbol and the Hydra of Greek mythology, which she assumed the organization had taken its name from, before a blindfold was shoved over her eyes and tied behind her head, casting everything in darkness. The guard shoved her to her feet, but she was so weak that her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. She heard Zola say something in German, and she was roughly pulled up, a glove wrapped around her elbow as she stumbled across the floor, unable to hold herself up.

Refusing to lean on the guard for support, Beatrice forced her legs to move forward even as they felt like they would give way any moment. With her vision entirely blocked, she was forced to rely on her other senses for guidance. She was led right, left, left again, right, up a short staircase, and around in seemingly endless circles until she was entirely dizzy and had no idea which direction she'd come from. Wherever she was, it had to be a huge building. Every so often, she heard what sounded like the distant shouts of men calling to each other and the clanging of metal, but even as she strained her ears she would be yanked in the opposite direction and the sounds would fade.

It felt as if they had been walking for an hour when she was finally stopped. The guard let go of her arm and she struggled to keep her balance as the grinding sound of keys in a lock was audible and then a loud creak as a door swung open. The blindfold was yanked away, and before Beatrice's eyes could adjust she was shoved forward, landing hard on her hands and knees. Without a word, the guard let go of her and the door behind her slammed shut again. She could hear the lock twist with an ominous click.

Beatrice took a moment to recover before she slowly raised her head. She was in a small, windowless room, the only escape the heavy metal door she had come in through. There wasn't even a handle on the inside, making escape impossible even if it was unlocked. The walls were made of old, rusting brick, the floor cold and hard. Aside from a metal bucket—she would worry about  _t_ _hat_ later—the only thing inside was a narrow cot pushed against the wall, barely enough room for even Beatrice to lie down on, and a threadbare patched blanket. Unfortunately, there was already someone lying on it.

As soon as she realized there was another person in the cell, she immediately scrambled backward, her head giving a painful throb to let her know it was still injured. Beatrice inhaled sharply as her hand immediately went up to the wound. Frustrated tears gathered in her eyes.

The figure lying on the cot slowly raised their head, as if they hadn't even noticed she was there until she'd made a noise. A hoarse voice asked, "Rosie?"

Beatrice's heart lurched against her chest, the pain in her head momentarily fading. She squinted through the gloom of the cell until she could make out Bucky's familiar form staring back at her.

She didn't even stop to think about why he was there or why they were both in the same cell—she was on her feet and running toward him like she hadn't been struggling to walk minutes before. He stood up too, swaying slightly, and then she was in his arms, the breath knocked out of both of them as they collided with each other. She threw her arms around his shoulders and half-sobbed his name. Bucky buried his face against her neck as Beatrice knotted her fingers in his torn shirt and took deep, shaking breaths. He was holding her just as tightly, his own breathing ragged. Beatrice couldn't believe they had been reunited a second time against all odds. "What are you doing here?" she breathed, pulling back but still encircled in his arms. He was no longer wearing his field uniform, but a torn olive shirt and matching trousers. His eyes were wide, the circles under them almost black. He looked younger than she had ever seen him.

"My unit got captured," Bucky explained. His voice was terrifyingly weak. "They brought us here and—" He abruptly stopped, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the bruise above her eye and the dried blood on her nose and collar. "Who did this to you? I'll kill them."

"Bucky, no—" Beatrice said quickly; his voice had lowered into a dangerous quality that frightened her. "It—it's fine. I'm fine."

He gave a short, hollow laugh. "No, you're not. Don't tell me you came here looking for me."

"Of course not," Beatrice replied. "But I would have. I would have if I'd known where you were." She knew as she said the words that it was the truth—she would have done anything to find him.

He briefly pressed his lips to the top of her head and inhaled deeply before drawing back, his eyes hungrily searching her face. His fingers touched her lips, her jaw, running his hands over her shoulders as if making sure she was actually there. "You know, you and Steve are more alike than you think," he murmured, and Beatrice's heart clenched painfully at the mention of their best friend.

"What is this place?" she asked him, hoping to stop the churning in her stomach when she thought of Steve, and the very real possibility that she would never see him again.

"A Hydra facility somewhere in Austria," Bucky explained, his eyes hardening again. "They have all the POWs making some sort of airplane. We were trapped in these metal cages and only taken out to the assembly lines. I got sick and couldn't work anymore, so they brought me here. I have no idea what they're planning to do to me."

"They have some sort of weapon," said Beatrice, thinking of the blue light and the guns that had vanished into thin air. "Schmidt said that it was something the Americans never even dreamed of."

Bucky stared at her. "Schmidt?"

"Yeah. He's the leader of Hydra. The—the field hospital got captured. Everyone else has probably been put to work, like your men have. But they brought me into some sort of laboratory. Schmidt interrogated me. And it  _was_ Hydra, Bucky. It was them who killed Pryce and Mrs. Banner. They thought I knew more about the SSR than I actually do. But now Schmidt wants my uncle. Apparently he wants my uncle to tell him myths…but he doesn't think they're myths. He thinks they're real."

"He wants your uncle to tell him fairy tales?" Bucky scoffed. "He's even crazier than I thought he was."

Beatrice looked away. "He wanted me to tell him where Ivan is. He said that he wouldn't give me food or water until I—God!" An icy jolt of fear suddenly squeezed her lungs as she stared up at him. "They put us in here together. If I don't get food, neither will you."

"Shhh, Rosie," said Bucky, trying to calm her down. "I can't remember the last time I've eaten and I'm still alive. I'll be fine."

"They must have done this on purpose," Beatrice moaned. "Schmidt must have found out we know each other." She couldn't meet his gaze. "This is all my fault."

"No, it's not your fault," Bucky said fiercely. "I told you that I can take care of myself, remember?"

But she shook her head. "We're both going to die here because of me. If I told Schmidt—"

"Rosie, come here," Bucky murmured, and pulled her close to him. Despite herself, Beatrice allowed him to tug at her hand and pull her down onto the cot beside him. She leaned her head on his shoulder and felt his fingers gently comb through her hair. His hand brushed against the wound on her temple, but there was no pain when he touched her. "They had a doctor come in and look at me," Bucky said, trying to sound as soothing as possible. "He took notes and said I was _suitable,_  whatever that means. I'm not gonna die. Not yet, anyway."

"Was he short with glasses?" Beatrice asked, and Bucky nodded. So it had been Zola, then. "Suitable for what?"

"I don't know," he said after a moment. Beatrice felt him shudder slightly. "But you can't tell Schmidt where your uncle is, Rosie. Whatever he wants from him, it can't be good."

Beatrice was slightly ashamed to realize she had only been thinking about Henry's safety and not  _why_ Schmidt wanted information from Ivan. After all, if Schmidt got what he wanted, it could have lasting effects not only for her, but for the entire war. She nodded and burrowed her face in Bucky's shoulder. "I'm scared," she confessed.

After a moment, Bucky whispered back, "So am I."

Her eyes snapped open, staring in disbelief at him. "But you've fought in the war…I've just been in the hospital. You'll be strong enough to survive and let the rest of the prisoners out."

But Bucky was shaking his head. "Don't say that, Rosie. You have too much faith in me. I'm not…I'm not a good man. I never have been. Not like Steve." He stood up and began to agitatedly pace around the cell; something about those words disturbed him. Beatrice was only half-watching him as he slammed his fist against the door, searching for a weak spot. Again the mention of Steve had sent her into a cold sweat.

Where was he now? Why hadn't he written either of them any letters? If something had happened to him, it would be nearly impossible for Beatrice to find out, even if she had still been at the field hospital.

"You can have the cot," Bucky said abruptly, sinking down onto the floor with his back against the wall and his elbows resting on his knees. "I'll sleep on the floor."

"We'll take turns," Beatrice said firmly. She lay down on the cot and stared blankly across the cell, unable to close her eyes. She couldn't bear to see Bucky curled up by himself in the dark corner, so she quietly stood up, pulling the blanket off the cot and dragging it over to him, spreading it out on the floor. He looked up at her in mingled surprise and confusion. Beatrice simply lay down and curled up against his side in response. Not allowing herself to think the worst, she buried her face in Bucky's shoulder. His arm slowly came up to wrap around her, and she could hear a faint rattle in his chest as he breathed. He appeared too tired to talk anymore, and it took Beatrice much longer to finally sink into sleep.

* * *

They could have been trapped for hours or even days—Beatrice wasn't sure. No outside light could get in through the cracks in the walls and no one came to check on them, much less give them food. Her mind was racing frantically, from worrying about the others to wondering what Schmidt wanted from her. He was going to starve them until she finally broke down and told him the truth. And Beatrice knew she couldn't do that to Bucky.

They didn't speak much, and didn't leave each other's sides; they were always touching in some way as if deriving comfort from the other's presence. Beatrice was prisoner of her own thoughts, scrambling around her brain like rats in a maze. The most signs of life Bucky had showed was when she had been thrown in alongside him. All he did was sleep, and when he was awake he breathed shallowly and coughed miserably. It was clear that he wasn't quite recovered from whatever illness had seized him on the battlefield. And not having food or water certainly wasn't helping his condition. Beatrice was so preoccupied with worrying about him that she barely realized she herself was getting weaker and more exhausted. It was an enormous effort just to stand up, and the constant hunger pains in her stomach were like knives piercing her side. She tried to ignore it: she had been hungry before, after all. Her guilt was the only thing she could focus on.

But her resolve was shattered for good when Bucky had a coughing fit that she feared he'd never recover from, the hacking coughs echoing in the cell. He was doubled up, arms wrapped around himself as if every spasm caused him extreme agony. When he finally stopped, his wheezing was almost worse.

"Bucky," Beatrice tried to say soothingly—she couldn't remember the last time she had spoken, and her voice was barely audible. He raised his head very slightly at the noise, as if it was an extreme effort to do so. His face was gaunt and pale, and his clothes hung even looser on him than they had before. A wave of dizziness gripped Beatrice just from speaking, and her arms and legs shook madly when she tried to move. She was fast becoming as weak as he was, and she hadn't even been ill beforehand. "I…I have to do something," she told him, forcing the words out through frozen lips, but her mind was so sluggish she couldn't even remember what it was she was supposed to do, only that it was her fault they were both dying. And she knew that was the truth: they would eventually starve. Beatrice was sure that Schmidt would haul her out at the very last minute and she wouldn't be able to stop herself from telling him everything before she died. And she doubted he would care if Bucky perished.

He was looking at her, but somehow  _through_  her at the same time, as if she was a ghost. He didn't seem to even be aware that she was present. "Bucky?" she asked again, and reached out to gently touch his shoulder. He forced a grimace that didn't reach his eyes.

"Think we'll ever get out of here, Steve?" he slurred. "So this is how we go, huh, pal? And all these years I thought it would be your fault…"

Beatrice's heart jumped painfully. "No, Bucky, it's me. Beatrice," she said. "It's Rosie, remember? You're—you're hallucinating—"

His eyebrows drew together slightly, his lips parting in confusion. "Rosie? Then where's Steve?" Before Beatrice could answer, he was overtaken by another coughing fit that left him gasping for air.

Terrified, and knowing she was backed into a corner both literally and figuratively, Beatrice pulled herself to her feet, gripping onto the wall for support, and edged toward the door, ignoring the way her vision turned white at the edges and her entire body protested at being forced to move when she had next to no energy. If she tried to run or even walk too far, she knew she would collapse. She— _they—_ couldn't last much longer without food.

"When she is ready to confess, send for me at once," Schmidt had said to Zola. So how was she supposed to get him? Her only hope was that there was a guard standing in front of the cell in case one or both of them somehow escaped. Even if the door was wide open, Beatrice knew that she likely wouldn't even be able to make it down the stairs before she fainted.

Drawing her arm back, she smacked it against the door as hard as she could, but it barely made an impact. "I'll tell Schmidt anything he wants to know!" she croaked, praying that whoever was on the other side could hear her. "Please—just bring Sergeant Barnes some food!"

But there was no response, and as the seconds ticked by Beatrice slumped to the floor, leaning the back of her head against the the wall. She wanted to scream. It was too late. It was all her fault and she was going to kill them both—

And then the door was thrown open and Schmidt himself strode in, the Hydra guard behind him holding a machine gun at the ready. Bucky started at the noise and seemed as if he was brought back to reality for a moment. His eyes widened as he realized what was going on. "Don't you dare touch her," he snapped at Schmidt, who didn't even spare him a glance.

"Take care of that one, will you?" he said, waving his arm in Bucky's general direction. Beatrice watched in horror as the guard strode forward and kicked Bucky hard in the abdomen.

"No!" she cried, as he doubled up in pain before falling limp, presumably unconscious from a blow that would have once only slowed him down.

"So," Schmidt said, looming over her, "I see you have made the correct choice. It has taken several days, but luckily for you I am patient. So you have decided not to let your friend die, then. Good. Dr. Zola is always looking for new subjects."

"Please just give him food," Beatrice pleaded. Schmidt's eyes flashed with something that was almost amusement.

"That is...very noble of you. But he is not merely your friend, is he?" He smirked as he made the connection. "I expect you have not forgotten what it is I wish to know."

"Moscow," she said immediately, and squeezed her eyes shut. "My uncle lives in Moscow. In—in the southeast. Kapotnya." It wasn't, of course, in Stalingrad, but where the Romanov family had actually lived before they immigrated to New York. Beatrice hoped that her swiftness in answering the question would make Schmidt believe her more readily.

"Good," Schmidt said, and made a satisfied noise. "Hiding in the open, is he? Well, it looks like you are saved for now. I will check on the validity of your information tonight." And then he strode out of the cell as quickly as he'd arrived, leaving Beatrice staring after him.

The guard shoved a jug of water, a loaf of hard, stale bread and something that vaguely resembled meat at them before leaving the cell. At that moment Beatrice didn't care what would happen to her when Schmidt found out she'd lied; she fell upon the food, shaking, and tore a small piece off of the bread for herself before going over to Bucky. She placed her hand on his face and gently turned him over. The guard must have kicked him in the spot where he had been injured by the shrapnel weeks earlier. "Bucky," she whispered, and his eyes fluttered open. "They brought us food."

He pulled himself up onto his elbows and stared at her. "Why?"

"I lied to him," Beatrice said. "Bucky…I told Schmidt that my uncle was in Moscow."

Instead of looking relieved, like she'd hoped he would, he instead looked horrified.  _"Why?_  Rosie, he'll come after you when he finds out what you did."

"I know," she replied. "But I couldn't bear to see you starving."

She could tell he wanted to protest more, but at the mention of starvation she saw his eyes flicker down to the food. She handed the bread to him, and he attacked it just as fervently as she had.

They both ate in silence until the food was gone. With her stomach full, Beatrice could feel her strength come back to her, and also see it returning in Bucky bit by bit. His eyes began to focus more, and she felt relief course through her veins at the knowledge that he, at least, would be all right. She had saved him.

Bucky moved closer to her and wound his arm around her shoulders as she leaned into him. She could hear the hard thump of his heart under his shirt, sounding stronger than she had heard it in quite some time. His body was warm and blessedly  _alive_  against hers.

"What do you think will happen?" Beatrice whispered, breaking the silence. "When Schmidt finds out that I lied to him."

Bucky tensed; his eyes slowly traveled down to meet hers, their pupils wide. She felt rather than heard him take a deep breath before he answered. "I don't know, Rosie," he said. "But I won't let him take you without a fight."

"Yes, you will," she tried to argue. "It won't do any good. I'm not going to let both of us die." Seeing that he was about to hotly interrupt, she reached up and placed a finger against his lips. "Please don't say anything, Bucky. I've made my peace with death. I—I think that I did as soon as I agreed to go to Europe. I'm not scared of it. How can I be, after I've had so much personal experience with it? People only fear what they don't understand. No, what I'm more afraid of is...is..." She sucked in a deep breath and glanced down at their legs, her ankle tucked over his. "Not being able to kiss you one more time."

Bucky's eyes went wider than she had ever seen them—it was almost comical. When he didn't react right away, Beatrice opened her mouth to apologize, but then he seemed to come back to his senses and suddenly his mouth was on hers without her knowing how it had gotten there, and she could feel the desperation and earnestness in every line of his body as he adjusted his position to face her. Beatrice wriggled closer to him until her own skin felt like it was on fire, and Bucky made a low noise in the back of his throat, his hand cupping her head.

Her pulse was so rapid that it was very nearly painful, but that was the last thing Beatrice was paying attention to. She kissed him again and again, each time with more fervor than the last, Bucky responding in equal measures. It was desperation and dizziness and desire like Beatrice had never felt, or even dreamed of feeling. She gasped as Bucky's tongue slid against hers, and she cautiously sucked on his lower lip, unsure what to do, unsure what he liked.

Luckily, she seemed to have hit upon something: he groaned and pulled her even tighter; Beatrice was making little gasps every time they broke apart. His hands slid roughly down her back and tangled in her hair. They must have looked like they were devouring each other rather than kissing. She felt Bucky's teeth graze her bottom lip, and she shuddered violently.

They fell back onto the blanket, Bucky's body cushioning her landing. Beatrice took her lips away from his for a brief moment, sure that her eyes were as round as saucers. Bucky was breathing hard, his face flushed. Something ignited in Beatrice, seeing him like that, as if she had power over him, and she pressed her body as hard as she could against his, winding herself around him.

Quick as a flash, Bucky turned them over until she was lying on the blanket under him, her hair spread around her head like a halo, and he was balancing himself over her, kicking off his shoes. "Bucky—" she whispered, hoping that wasn't his way of pinning her down so he could more easily end the kiss. Her hands were moving of their own volition, snaking under his shirt, running her hands across his chest.

She heard him suck in his breath and he closed his eyes, suddenly going very still. His hands were resting on either side of her head, but as she touched him they grabbed fistfuls of the blanket, bunching up the fabric. His elbows were shaking from the effort of trying to hold himself back. "Do you...do you want to stop?" he asked huskily. She could feel him against every line of her body; the question was akin to him asking her if she wanted to get off the Cyclone after it had already started moving.

Beatrice shook her head fiercely. Her hands stilled on his skin and she pulled his shirt up and over his head; he easily shrugged free of it. "No," she said; she had never been more sure of anything in her life. "Do you?"

A slow grin spread across Bucky's face, and for a moment he looked like the Bucky she had first met, the carefree boy with a wicked smirk. "I think you already know the answer to that, Rosie," he murmured, and bowed his head to kiss her jaw and down the line of her throat, unbelievably gentle. His breath was as soft as a touch. He paused when he came to her shoulder, and she felt his fingers begin to unfasten the buttons on her uniform. "If this is my last night alive, I can't think of anything else I'd rather be doing."

His kisses were slower now, each one light and tantalizing. Beatrice couldn't take it any longer: she lifted herself up and twined her legs around his waist. There was some instinct driving her forward that she couldn't explain, one she supposed she always had. Bucky gasped against her mouth, his hips digging into hers, and before Beatrice knew it her uniform was being pushed aside and cast away. Now it was her turn to go motionless, shocked at being so undressed in front of a man. There was still time to tell him to stop, but her mind banished that thought as soon as it appeared. She ran her fingers along the waistband of his trousers, undoing his belt buckle, and he groaned in response, his breathing coming faster as he impatiently kicked them off. Beatrice's chest was rising and falling rapidly, and she broke the kiss with great reluctance. Bucky stared down at her, and she felt his entire body tense. "There's one more thing I wanted to say," she panted, already feeling as though she had run a marathon. Bucky just blinked at her—she wasn't sure if he could even form words at this point. Looking up at him, with desire in his eyes and his body hers to explore, Beatrice finally said the words she had been wanting to say for months: "I love you, James Barnes."

Bucky's control finally broke, and he was kissing her with another savage fervor, saying her name over and over. Beatrice felt herself smiling, actually smiling, and she took the opportune moment to rid him of the rest of his clothing.

She had imagined what this would be like before—of course she had, too embarrassed to even face her own thoughts afterward—but this was so much  _better,_ so much more real. Bucky's body was a warm, heavy weight against hers, his lips trailing along her collarbone. While Beatrice still wore her slip, protecting the last shreds of her modesty, he was completely unclothed, hard against her thigh. Something swirled in the pit of Beatrice's stomach, an aching want she had never quite allowed herself to feel before.

Her hands fisted in Bucky's hair as his kisses grew lower, her breathing shallow as his fingers stopped at the straps of her slip. He must have felt her tense; he raised his head slightly, his eyes asking a silent question. Beatrice took a moment to inhale deeply, gathering up the courage to give him a tiny nod, and he pulled it up and over her head before his hands circled around her back to unhook her brassiere.

Beatrice was suddenly confronted with all of the imperfections she'd spent a lifetime trying to hide: too-small breasts, narrow hips, an unsightly freckle on the right side of her ribs. Bucky made quick work of her garter straps and stockings, and suddenly she was completely bare, shivering a bit in the cold air.

She heard his breath hitch, felt his eyes trail over her body. "I'm sorry," she whispered quickly, suddenly glad the cell wasn't flooded with light. "I know I'm not—"

Bucky placed a finger over her lips, shaking his head. His eyes were wide. "You're beautiful, Rosie," he murmured, and there was something like awe in his voice. "So beautiful."

He bent his head again and kissed the space between her breasts, his hands resting along the curve of her waist. Beatrice inhaled sharply and her hips arched up in an involuntary movement. He gave a low moan in response, stubble scratching against her skin. The ache in her stomach had spread to a blossoming fire.

"Bucky—" she croaked, her voice trembling. "Bucky, please—" Her self-consciousness had suddenly disappeared: she didn't know where and she didn't care. She could feel nothing else except for his hands on her skin, his mouth on her breasts. She no longer wanted there to be a molecule of space between them.

Bucky's eyes met hers again, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. There was a flush high on his cheeks and his mouth was parted slightly. She could feel his heart hammering against her skin. This time Beatrice kissed him, hard, dragging her tongue along his lips, and he growled something low in his throat that sounded like desperation. Each time their mouths met, their kisses became deeper and more frantic until both of them were gasping for air. Beatrice's own heart was throwing itself against her ribcage.

He slid his hand down her thigh and she gasped against his mouth, her fingers digging into his back. There was only one way for them to become physically closer. Beatrice stilled under him as he spoke against her lips, his breath warm. "Rosie—God—are you sure?" he asked hoarsely. His ragged breathing was the only sound in the cell.

Beatrice knew what he meant: there was no going back from this. Giving up her virtue meant risking her reputation both as a nurse and as a woman if anyone found out, and according to her mother, no man would want to marry her. Once she might have listened. But Beatrice no longer cared about either of those things, not when she was certain that she was going to die in the very near future, and not when she found it impossible to think about anyone else when Bucky so entirely filled her senses.

She could feel the tension in every line of his body, knowing that it would be agony for him to stop now, but he would do so immediately if she wanted him to. He loved her enough to give her the choice.

_He loved her._

"Don't," Beatrice whispered.

Bucky's hands froze on her, his eyes searching her face. "Don't what?"

"Don't stop," she breathed, and the last remnants of her modesty vanished as she reached down with shaking, unsure hands to grasp his length.

His groan was low and needy as he kissed her again and again, leaving her unable to think about anything, concentrate on anything, except for his mouth on her skin. His hand closed over hers, showing her what she should do, how he wanted to be touched, until he ground restlessly against her and she, too, was fidgeting under him in desperation.

And then suddenly he was inside her, and both of them froze, staring wide-eyed at each other until Beatrice gave a shaky nod, gripping his fingers tightly. Bucky slowly began to move, and Beatrice tried to ride out the discomfort as best as she could, silently urging him to go faster. Even in her wildest dreams she had never imagined this level of pure, raw intimacy. Bucky was being as gentle as possible, stroking her hair, kissing her eyelids, but she could tell he wouldn't last much longer. His pace began to increase, and at some point Beatrice's discomfort ebbed and her thoughts seemed to scatter.

She should be trying to memorize Bucky's face, the way he looked now, his hair tousled, his eyes half-closed but his gaze never wavering from hers, the way she was pushing him to go faster,  _faster,_ she didn't know where this sudden, all-consuming instinct was coming from, the heat that was overtaking her entire body and making it impossible to concentrate on anything. God, she was—she was going to—she didn't know what—

And then the tension finally broke as she tightened around him, and her vision momentarily went white as everything burst into bright, overwhelming spasms, a dull roar filling her ears, as if she had reached the summit of a cliff, as if she had seen heaven itself. Bucky gasped her name once, a prayer or a plea, and buried his face in her shoulder as the shuddering waves washed over her—over them. This was something so extraordinary that she was certain no one else had ever experienced it, something that was unique to them alone.

When it was all over and the world came rushing back to her, she smiled tiredly and allowed her grip to relax on him. Bucky rolled over and grinned sheepishly, kissing the tip of her nose and pulling her close to him. "That was something, huh?" he murmured huskily, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. He was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world, like she was the only thing that had ever and would ever matter. She wanted to drape herself in this moment forever.

"It was…something," Beatrice agreed, placing her hand lightly on his cheek. His skin was burning, but no longer from fever. She felt vaguely, pleasantly sore. Bucky brought her other hand up to his mouth to kiss each of her fingers as she watched him.

 _I love you,_ was all she could think in the hazy glow, and he smiled at her as if he could hear it.

* * *

It was some time later that Beatrice became aware of the fact that Elena would be horrified. It was faintly ridiculous, thinking of her mother at a time like this. But it was now clear to Beatrice that she would hear her mother's voice in her head when she was conflicted or otherwise at odds with the person she thought she was, and the self that she had grown to be. But Elena's lecturing about doing such things with a man she was not married to rang hollow in Beatrice's own ears. After all, what did it matter when she would likely die before she could be married, anyway? The defiant side of Beatrice refused to apologize, the one who snuggled closer to Bucky as he gently brushed her hair away from her face and pretended for a moment that they were not locked up in a cell in a Hydra facility thousands of miles from Brooklyn. Being nervous about simply kissing Bucky now felt like a ridiculous, unfounded worry.

But even so…they should be going to movies and holding hands at Coney Island and stealing chaste kisses on the cheek, not holding each other as if their lives depended on it and rolling around in a heated tangle of limbs. But then again, they shouldn't be fighting a war they didn't fully understand, nor trapped in a cell by a man who was prepared to kill them both at a moment's notice. There were a great many things wrong with the entire situation, Beatrice thought, but what she had done with Bucky was not one of them.

The floor was even colder under the thin material of the blanket without clothes, but Beatrice hardly noticed it anymore. She was still encircled in Bucky's arms—she wasn't sure he would ever let her go at this point.

"If we make it out of this alive, marry me," he murmured, his face buried in her hair and his lips at her ear. His fingers were tracing light, soothing circles over the bare skin of her back.

"Bucky!" She twisted around in his arms to stare at his face. "You can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life." Bucky drew back to meet her gaze, his eyes very solemn. "You are a damned miracle, Beatrice Hartley, and I would be an idiot if I didn't tell you. I love you—God, I've never said that to a girl before—and I want to marry you more than I've ever wanted anything. I—I never thought I would settle down with anyone, but you make me  _want_ to do it." He shook his head and chuckled dryly. "What have you turned me into?"

Beatrice couldn't speak. A tiny smile softened his lips before he continued. "We'll live in Brooklyn, a nice house with a view of the city. Maybe we'll have a place in Indiana too. Start a farm. Even a few kids someday." He paused in consideration. "More than a few, if we keep doing this."

Beatrice's cheeks flamed, although she had no idea how she had it left in her to be embarrassed about anything. "Bucky!" she exclaimed again.

He, on the other hand, didn't look embarrassed at all. His eyes searched hers intently, his hair still dripping with sweat. He seemed about to say something else when loud voices suddenly became audible outside the door, and there was the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock. Their eyes widened at the same time, and both immediately scrambled for their clothes. Beatrice wasn't entirely sure how her uniform had managed to end up on the other side of the cell, but she quickly jumped to her feet and hurried over as Bucky grabbed his trousers and shirt, throwing the blanket back over the cot. She was sure that her entire body was flushed and the guard would know exactly what they had been up to, but when the door swung open and slammed against the opposite wall, Beatrice was sitting on the cot while Bucky leaned against the wall next to her.

Not one, but two uniformed Hydra soldiers strode in. Bucky immediately moved to stand in front of Beatrice, blocking her, but one of them grabbed him and shoved him aside like he weighed nothing while the other hauled Beatrice up with a tight grip on her shoulder. "Where are you taking us?" she gasped, trying to struggle out of the guard's grip to no avail.

She didn't expect them to answer, but one said, "Dr. Zola wants to see him," and shook Bucky's arm. He swung around in a wild attempt to punch the guard, but was stopped by its arm easily blocking the blow. He cast a desperate glance back at Beatrice and began to yell something to her, but a gloved hand was slapped across his mouth and he was dragged out of the cell still madly fighting, the scuffle echoing all the way down the corridor.

Beatrice, on the other hand, couldn't move. Her heart was pounding wildly against her chest as she stared up at the covered eyes of her own guard, and was only able to see her own terrified reflection staring back at her. "And as for you," he said in a thick accent that took her a moment to decipher, "You are going to see Herr Schmidt himself."


	21. XXI

From that moment on, Beatrice's memories were hazy at best and completely indiscernible at worst. She wasn't sure whether it was from fear, pain, or some combination of the two, but the time directly after she had been dragged out of the cell was little more than a blur of shapes and colors all in varying shades of gray. What she did remember, though, was the feeling of Bucky's arms tight around her, the way he growled her name, and something else that went far beyond the physical aspect. Something almost—Beatrice could barely even think it— _holy._ They were bound together emotionally just as much as they had been physically, and she felt as if she was carrying a secret, a tiny act of defiance toward Schmidt. He had tried to make her miserable, but by throwing her and Bucky together, he had made her exactly the opposite. Beatrice could almost have thanked him for what he had done.

Perhaps she and Bucky would not have reached this level of a relationship for many more months, if not years, if they had gone on as they did in Brooklyn. But the war cast everything in sharp relief—the threat of death sped up time itself, forcing a thorough analysis of what was necessary and what wasn't. Beatrice had come out of it knowing one thing: that she loved Bucky Barnes, and he loved her, and such a thing was what the entire world was searching for. If she had to choose between a short life with the people she loved, or a long but lonely existence, she would choose the former every time.

Schmidt was already waiting for her when she was shoved inside the laboratory again. Beatrice stumbled and fell at his feet. She tried to pull herself back up again, but the tip of his boot pressed down between her shoulderblades and she was prevented from rising any farther, on her hands and knees like a dog, her hair falling over her face.

"So," Schmidt began in a light, conversational tone, "As I am sure you are well aware, a strange thing occurred yesterday when I investigated the information you provided me with. You see, the address in Moscow, according to my reliable comrades, no longer exists. The building was demolished two years ago. But…you were partially correct. It was the home of the Romanovs until 1895, at which point they moved to America, yes?"

Beatrice didn't dare to speak; she knew that if she opened her mouth she would either cry or vomit. So she kept her teeth clenched together, biting down hard on her tongue until the taste of blood filled her mouth. The heel of Schmidt's boot dug into her back, the pressure gradually increasing until her limbs began to shake from the strain of holding herself up, and she finally collapsed to the ground, her cheek pressed into the concrete. But Schmidt wasn't having any of that: he hauled her up and gripped her by the hair, his teeth bared in something close to a snarl. "The Americans have trained you in the art of interrogation, I see," he spat, violently shaking her with every word. "Lying to me is admittedly bold, but ultimately ineffective. No matter; I will find out the truth some way. Thankfully this delay was not too hindering to my plans."

Her eyes were watering madly from the pain, but she forced herself not to blink. _Please let him kill me quickly,_ was all she could think, frantically praying to a deity she had never even been sure existed. That was the best she could hope for at this point: a quick and painless death. But looking at the feverish light in Schmidt's eyes, she knew it was likely a false hope.

He let go of her so abruptly that she stumbled backwards, clutching at her throat. "Cover her eyes," Schmidt ordered, and within half a second the dark blindfold was pulled around Beatrice's eyes again, this time tied so tightly that it dug into her scalp. She tried to reach up and tug it looser, but her hands were yanked behind her back so harshly that she cried out, and she felt her wrists being tied together with a piece of rope, presumably by one of the omnipresent guards. The rope was going to scrape her wrists raw within minutes, but that was the least of her worries.

Something gripped her shoulder and led her forward; Beatrice had no choice but to comply. "This is a regrettable waste," Schmidt remarked, his voice too close to her. Beatrice cringed away from him. "But it seems you have left me with no other choice…Nurse Hartley."

Before she could respond, a blow was delivered squarely to the back of her knees, and her legs buckled. Her shin smacked against something hard and cold, and her first thought was that it was made of porcelain, like a bathtub or sink. Her mind was whirring crazily as she heard the guard step away from her and someone—she assumed Schmidt—grabbed a fistful of her hair again. Even though she wasn't trying to squirm free, the rope binding her wrists together was still scraping her skin.

"I shall give you one more chance," Schmidt said next to her ear, his voice low and deadly. "If you divulge the whereabouts of Ivan Romanov, I promise that you will feel no pain."

Beatrice struggled to remember what she had learned from her SSR training—during torture, any promises a captor made were usually lies. Even if she did tell him now, it wouldn't negate the fact that she had already lied to him once. No, she decided, Schmidt wanted her to suffer as much as possible.

Still…

Her resolve wavered for a moment, as much as she hated herself for even considering it. But she was only human. If she could somehow get a message to her uncle letting him know he wasn't safe—

But Schmidt was going to kill her anyway. Beatrice was certain of that. He had never planned on letting her leave this place alive.

While those thoughts were flying through her head, the man himself appeared to take her silence as a refusal. "Very well, then," he said, sounding almost disappointed. "If I were you, I would have chosen the easy way."

 _Of course you would've,_ Beatrice thought, with one last twist of bitterness, and then her head was suddenly forced down into freezing water.

The shock of it sent a shudder throughout her entire body, and she jerked violently as if she had been electrocuted. But her arms were tied and Schmidt was holding her head under the water, keeping it submerged so she couldn't move an inch. The more she struggled, the tighter his hold became.

She involuntarily gasped at the temperature, and water rushed into her mouth and lungs, choking her. Black rushed across her vision as she began to flail in panic, struggling for air. Her lungs were burning—not just from the cold but from the lack of oxygen—and she couldn't do anything about it. Conversely, her heart kicked off at a frantic pace as she began to panic, slamming against her chest as it valiantly tried to keep her alive.

She was only vaguely aware that Schmidt was grasping her fingers and bending them backward in the direction of her elbow. Beatrice's agonized scream only came out as a sea of bubbles as a searing pain shot up her arm. Her struggles were becoming weaker and she was so dizzy she couldn't concentrate on anything. She was no longer able to form a coherent thought. She couldn't remember why she refused to tell Schmidt where Ivan lived. She couldn't even remember her own name.

And then she felt her fingers crack as an unimaginable agony tore through the ligaments in her hand, and her vision turned white as she slumped against the edge of the tub.

She couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few seconds when she was yanked out of the water, unable to make a sound. A torrent of water gushed out of her lungs as she fell onto her stomach, coughing and retching madly. Her broken hand lay uselessly at her side—the rope had been untied, but she had no strength left to even twitch her fingers.

Schmidt's face was hovering above her—she couldn't see him, but she knew he was there. "Do you see what I mean?" he asked. "Fortunately, I have no plans today. I find myself becoming interested to discover how long you are able to hold out."

 _Stalingrad,_ Beatrice's mind shouted at her. _Just say it and this will stop._ But before she could open her mouth—to choke out the truth or another lie or anything at all—she was hauled upward again, scorching pain shooting through her arm as it was forced to move far beyond its current capability. "No!" she screamed, just as her cry was swallowed up and her head was submerged again. She thrashed around violently, kicking out at empty air even though she knew trying to struggle was useless.

This time she knew what to expect, although that didn't make it any less painful. She didn't inhale any water, but somehow that was almost worse: her lungs began to ache much sooner than they had the previous time, and a dull ringing began in her ears that sounded like a thousand alarms had gone off in her head at once. She felt Schmidt grab her good arm and twist her fingers upward—even though she was braced for the pain, it still tore through her like a knife, and she couldn't stop herself from gasping, a mouthful of water sucked in through her throat and her stomach heaving again. _Let me die,_ was the only thought that was running through her head, over and over again. _Let me die let me die let me die—_

But death was not her next deliverance: just as she felt consciousness begin to leave her, she was wrenched from the icy water again, and slid to the ground, boneless, for the umpteenth time that day. She could still feel the phantom pain of her lungs burning for air and her heart was galloping like a racehorse. Strangely enough, she didn't immediately choke up the water in her lungs; she was aware of her physical reactions—pain and dizziness and exhaustion—but now it was like they were at a distance, like she was watching herself from above and only felt the ghosts of sensation. Beatrice knew what it was, had learned about it and even seen it firsthand in some of the soldiers: she was on the edge of blacking out with only the most tenuous ties to consciousness—her mind was trying to block the trauma, to prevent her from suffering any more than she already had. She was probably going into shock; both of her hands were broken and her blood pressure had to be at an all-time low after nearly drowning twice.

The blindfold was whipped off her head and her vision briefly flickered, registering something bright red above her. It looked like a red skull, but her eyes were so fuzzy that she couldn't quite make it out. Her sight blurred and then cut off again; she could only stare up at Schmidt numbly. Water ran in little rivulets out of her mouth and down her face onto the floor. She must have looked already dead, staring up at the ceiling blankly and unable to even make the slightest movement.

"Well," Schmidt's voice sounded from the grotesque skull above her, "Have you changed your mind yet?"

Beatrice couldn't move. She tried to say something—anything—but no sound issued from her mouth. She had forgotten how to speak.

Schmidt growled, and she saw his boot draw back before flying toward her head. Beatrice's skull cracked against the side of the tub when he struck her, but she barely even felt the pain—she just fell limp, like a rag doll, fighting to hold onto herself. Something hot and wet was soaking into her hair, trickling down her forehead and onto the floor. She fought to speak, feeling her vocal cords contract, and something that only vaguely resembled human speech bubbled from her mouth. "Sta…sta…" was all she could whimper, her breaths rattling.

Schmidt's face was suddenly inches from hers, his eyes looking like flames glowing in his crimson face. "Stalingrad?" he asked. Beatrice could no longer speak, but she mustered up all her concentration to move her head, an agonizing pain shooting through her brain. But Schmidt must have taken the slight incline of her chin as a confirmation, since he moved out of her field of view and she heard his footsteps growing fainter.

Beatrice wasn't sure how long she lay there, dying. She knew that Schmidt wasn't coming back. He had gotten what he needed from her and once he was positive she had given him the correct information, he would dispose of her. She was going to be left alone to bleed out here, on the floor of Zola's laboratory, with both of her hands broken and her legs too weak to stand. She was certain that she had a concussion and possibly a bruised skull. It wouldn't be surprising if she was bleeding internally, either. If she lost consciousness now, it was more than likely that she would never wake up.

Funny, that even as her brain diagnosed her own injuries as if she was a patient, she was dying from those same wounds. The habit was ingrained into her, even now. If it had been a soldier who was beyond saving, Beatrice would have stayed with him and held his hand until he died. But now she didn't have anyone to talk to her in a soothing voice and tell her that she would be all right even when she knew she wouldn't be.

Beatrice prayed that Ivan would somehow be alerted that Hydra was now after him and he could get Henry and Luisa to safety. _I'm sorry, Uncle Ivan,_ she thought hazily, too dissociated to feel proper regret. She hadn't meant to tell Schmidt the truth—all she had been able to process was the torture, and she'd wanted to make it stop by any means possible. But she was dying anyway. And she had done what she'd sworn she would never do: she had put her brother in danger. She was sure the SSR would have pardoned her for what she'd said, especially since she had been under torture and she was only a nurse, after all, not a full-fledged agent. But she would never forgive herself if something happened to Henry because of her moment of weakness.

She wasn't entirely sure how long she lay there in an ever-widening pool of blood, fighting to stay conscious for as long as she could. At some point, the panicked desire to stay awake had morphed into something different, something that felt almost like resignation, as if she was finally accepting her fate.

But no—it was even more than resignation. She was calm and no longer in pain. In fact, she felt very, very tired, like she'd been awake for days on end and finally had the chance to sleep. Now there was something almost peaceful about it, as if accepting her fate meant that she could die in peace. It would be the easiest thing in the world just to close her eyes and fall into the darkness that awaited her…

She had been here before, ten months ago. She remembered the eerie calm that had settled over her, and the absence of any sort of pain. Her first death hadn't been quite like this one, though—then, she had been lying in an alley in Brooklyn, freezing to death. Now she was lying on the floor of a laboratory in Austria, bleeding to death. But the biggest difference between the two situations was that this time she was completely alone, and Steve wasn't coming to rescue her.

Although she was utterly convinced of her solitude, Beatrice thought she could hear faint voices swirling around her. She was probably hallucinating—it wasn't uncommon to hear the voices of loved ones moments before death, but even as she strained to hear better, she couldn't understand what they were saying nor recognize individual voices. Darkness was rushing up like a blanket around her, obscuring what little awareness she had left. Apparently hearing was the last of the senses to fade. Perhaps she was already dead.

That was the last conscious thought she remembered having before she finally succumbed to the blackness of nonexistence, unable to fight any longer. The voices slowly faded away into the distance, and nothingness began to greedily envelop her. The absence of feeling, of being anything at all, brought with it an unexplainable comfort. Darkness was a blessing. Her toes were curling over the edge of the abyss—

And then— _pain._

It seemed, at first, to come from far away, as if she was on the opposite side of a mirror but knew that it was happening to her reflection. She shied away from it, trying to escape into the darkness again, but it was pulling her back, tugging her away from the edge. No—she had just escaped a world of pain, she didn't want to go back into another one—

But it persisted, a sharp pinprick that grew in intensity with each second that passed. Beatrice felt sensation slowly begin to trickle through her again, sluggish and reluctant. It was like trying to swim through quicksand, or fight against a powerful current dragging her downwards. She was regaining herself by minuscule jumps, one or two at a time, the darkness slowly receding away from her. The inky blackness warped and twisted around her, forming itself into shapes. She suddenly had arms again, and that was where the pain was concentrated, flickers of something that felt like fire licking at her skin. The abyss was growing farther and farther away from her, as if she was rising, being lifted back into the world she had nearly left. Now she could feel her shoulders, and her legs, and her head, but her body was unimaginably heavy. She wasn't sure that her brain had reconnected with her body yet.

The pain was spreading, reaching into her torso and her fingers. It was bringing back feeling into her body as it was simultaneously destroying it. Pain was bringing her back to life. Its intensity was steadily mounting, too, wave after wave of it wracking through her body. Now Beatrice was aware of her heart pumping madly as it drove the poison through her veins. Now it was overleaping itself, passing simple pain and going straight to agony—but she couldn't move—oh God no she couldn't even scream—this was even worse than what Schmidt had done to her—she would do anything to be in the darkness again—

Something twisted inside her, choking up her organs, and she finally felt herself able to curl away but was met with resistance—she was pinned to the spot again. The air rushing in and out of her lungs felt like a thousand knives piercing her skin.

To distract herself from the torture, she concentrated on her breaths, trying to make them as even as possible. She would occasionally stutter, her pulse rate speeding up with it as a particularly painful wave wracked through her body, but she was able to force herself back under control.

She had taken exactly fifteen hundred breaths when she heard the voices again.

"The serum is working." This was unmistakably Zola, his voice hushed and eager. "It is repairing her injuries."

The voice that answered him was Schmidt's; Beatrice tensed and felt her fingers twitch as she tried to curl them into fists. "I must congratulate you, Arnim," he said grudgingly. "I did not believe that this particular incarnation would work. Have you tested the formula on any other subjects?"

"Yes—I experimented on the American sergeant shortly before I found her. Unfortunately, it is impossible to tell whether it was effective or not, as he did not require any sort of healing. I must examine him again."

 _Bucky,_ Beatrice thought hazily with a touch of panic. Zola had done the same thing to him. Where was he? Could he be nearby?

But of more pressing consequence was the realization that, as she drew back into herself, the pain was receding from her extremities. Her hands and feet were almost completely free, and when she experimentally tested moving her fingers she was shocked to find that they had been molded back into their normal position, as if her wrist had never been broken at all. Likewise, she could turn her head to the side without excruciating pain radiating through her neck and down her spine. Now she could feel the leather straps binding her wrists and ankles; there was a faint smell of metal in the air she was certain she hadn't noticed before.

A whisper of wind stirred from beside her, the edge of a coat swishing around Schmidt's ankles. Beatrice frowned; she had _definitely_ not been able to hear that before. Her sense of hearing, touch and smell appeared to have become more acute.

Before she could open her eyes to see if her sight had improved as well, she heard Zola speak. "She is beginning to stir," he remarked. "The process must be nearly complete."

There was an answering quiet but derisive exhale from Schmidt. "Put her back under," he ordered.

 _No,_ Beatrice thought desperately, and yanked at her bonds, pulling at the straps that were taut across her arms and stomach. She froze when, to her astonishment, they snapped away and she was free, suddenly unbound.

Her eyes flew open, and her vision crystallized into something clear and sharp, zeroing in on the squat, rounded form of Zola, his glasses askew as he grabbed her arm and jabbed a needle into her elbow before she could react. Behind him was Schmidt, and a cold shock of horror washed through Beatrice as she realized that the glimpse of red she'd seen before she had passed out hadn't been a hallucination: his skin had been pulled back to reveal a glowing red skull, like something straight out of a nightmare. So that had been the serum's adverse effects on him. Without his disguise, he no longer looked human at all.

Beatrice's body gave out before her mind did; she slumped back onto the gurney, her mind whirling furiously, before her eyes rolled back into her head.

* * *

"Beatrice! Beatrice, can you hear me?"

That was when Beatrice knew she had to be dead, because it was Steve's voice that she heard now. He sounded frantic and strained and not at all like himself. She tried to answer him, to ask how he had died, but her limbs were heavy and impossible to move, no matter how much strength she threw into the gesture. She wasn't dying again—her mind was throwing itself frantically against her skull while her body refused to move.

"Rosie," said another voice— _Bucky's_ voice—and she was forced to lie still even though she wanted so badly to see him. "Rosie, oh _God."_ His voice cracked, and Beatrice's heart clenched painfully. "Steve, is she…"

"She's alive." Steve sounded unusually grim. "Zola must have used some sort of tranquilizer on her—she's paralyzed."

At least that explained her inability to move, although it didn't explain why Steve was there. Beatrice was stuck inside her own body, unable to open her eyes or make a sound. But she could sense what was going on around her: there was an acrid scent in the air, growing stronger with each breath she took, and she was uncomfortably warm, though she remembered the laboratory as being cold. Sweat was gathering on her forehead and her cheeks felt flushed.

There were suddenly hands on her, gently sliding under her back and under her knees, and she felt herself being lifted off the gurney as easily as if she was a child. Her arms were looped around someone's neck and her face was buried in their shoulder, but she could tell that it wasn't Bucky. She inhaled deeply and caught a hint of the familiar scent that she'd always associated with Steve, but that was impossible.

"Buck, we have to get out of here," she heard Steve's voice say, and to her shock she felt his chest rumble as he spoke. But it _couldn't_ be him. Aside from the impossibilities of him being here in Europe, his arms were strong around her and she had been lifted at least a foot off the ground. "The building's gonna blow any minute."

"I know a shortcut," Bucky muttered from next to her, and Beatrice felt his hand softly brush against her arm, sending tingles up and down her spine. But she could neither move nor react to the gesture as she felt Steve, or whoever sounded and smelled exactly like him, begin to run forward; she was barely jostled in his arms. She could hear a different pair of footsteps—she assumed they were Bucky's—in front of them.

The scorching heat only grew more blistering as they pounded down the corridor and up a flight of steps, the hammering of Steve's feet ringing in Beatrice's ears. Every so often she would try to move or speak, but she didn't seem to be recovering her autonomy. The last thing she remembered had been Zola stabbing her with a needle—she guessed that Steve's explanation of a tranquilizer was correct.

She was uncomfortably hot when they finally stopped; she heard the sound of a fist slamming against concrete and Bucky swore under his breath. "Give her to me," he said. "You smash the door in."

Steve tensed. "You're not strong enough—"

"That's my line," Bucky shot back. "Just shut up and do it, Steve. Do you want all three of us to die here?"

She was transferred to a different pair of arms—she would know Bucky's hands anywhere. He flipped her wrist over and placed his thumb against it, feeling for a heartbeat. Beatrice heard him exhale in relief when he found it, and he pulled her tighter against him. She could feel his heart, too, pounding against his chest.

In front of them, Steve grunted and slammed what Beatrice guessed was his fist through the door blocking their exit. Not a second later, there was the unmistakable sound of glass shattering and fresh air rushed in to meet them. "Go!" he shouted urgently, and Bucky leapt forward, air whistling past Beatrice's ears as he sprinted away. But his breathing was ragged, and his legs must have given out soon after he began to run, since Beatrice felt herself tumbling to the ground and landing hard on the grass. Thankfully, the air wasn't knocked out of her and the impact barely hurt, but she heard Bucky frantically calling her name.

"Get down!" Steve shouted, and Beatrice felt one—or both—of them covering her, shielding her with their bodies as something bright orange burst in front of her eyelids, and the world suddenly exploded around them.


	22. XXII

Hazy, indistinct shapes danced around the edges of Beatrice's vision, blurring in and out of focus. Her ribs ached and her head hurt something awful. Groaning, she reached up to massage her forehead and felt a lump the size of a grape just above her right ear.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," a wry voice said from beside her. Beatrice froze and slowly turned her head at the familiar voice. Bucky was sitting in a chair next to her cot, his face bruised and scraped; but he looked unharmed, if a little rough around the edges.

"Bucky?" Beatrice asked, slightly dazed. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and glanced around. They appeared to be in a private tent, medical supply crates scattered on the ground and shoved haphazardly under makeshift cabinets and drawers. It had just enough room to fit the cot she was lying on and Bucky's chair beside it. The canopy overhead fluttered slightly in a phantom breeze. "What happened? Where are we?"

The momentary glimpse of mingled amusement and relief she had seen in his eyes slowly faded into seriousness. "We're at an SSR camp in Italy," Bucky told her.

His words, though intending to comfort, only served to make Beatrice tense even further: she stared at him, remembering her torture and the fiery pain as she had been strapped to a table. "H—how?" she stammered.

"It's a long story," Bucky admitted, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "But you're safe now, Rosie."

"And so are you," Beatrice said. Bucky gave a half-shrug and leaned closer to her. There was a nasty bruise above his left eye that hadn't been there the last time Beatrice had seen him. She felt a rush of anger boil up inside her at the sight.

"For now," he said darkly, reaching out a hand to brush her hair back from her face. Beatrice closed her eyes at his touch, not wanting to feel anything but his hands on her. "What did they do to you?" he asked, an echo of Beatrice's own rage reflecting back at her. "Schmidt and Zola."

Beatrice kept her eyes closed so that he wouldn't be able to tell she was lying. "Nothing irreversible. Schmidt just…" She sucked in a deep, pained breath. "I told him, Bucky," she whispered. "I told him that my uncle was in Stalingrad. I didn't mean to, but he was—he was going to kill me."

His hand stilled on her cheek and she felt him tense. "That's not your fault, Rosie. Ivan wouldn't blame you for saying anything in that situation. And he knows how to protect himself and your brother."

She tried to nod, knowing he was right. The knot of guilt in her stomach lessened as she leaned into him. His arms came up to encircle her, and she leaned her head against his chest. She wanted to ask him what Zola had done to  _him—_ she could only remember bits and pieces of the conversation between the doctor and Schmidt when she had been strapped to the table. Had he felt the same fire in his veins as she had? Had his senses sharpened as hers did? Or had she just imagined it all, brought on by a drug-induced hallucination?

But before she could ask, he said, "Your friends are here too. They were rescued just before us."

Beatrice raised her head, relief coursing through her at his words. "Diana and Caroline and Ruth?" she said. "They're all right?"

"Yeah. All the POWs were liberated from the factory. There's about three hundred of them here—the SSR is taking them back to London." He paused. "I decided to stay behind and wait for you to wake up."

Beatrice's eyes widened. "Bucky—you shouldn't have."

"Okay, that's not the only reason I'm still here," he admitted, a tiny smirk crossing his face. "This probably should have been the first thing I told you."

Beatrice immediately guessed what it was—the thought had been in the forefront of her mind since she had awoken. "Steve," she immediately said. "I heard you talking to him."

Bucky raised his eyebrows. "So you knew he was there."

"I was awake," Beatrice replied. "I just couldn't move."

"Yeah, the doc said you were paralyzed," Bucky said. She felt him exhale against her. "Well, Steve's a bit harder to explain."

"I'm listening."

He shook his head slightly; she felt his stubble scratching her face. "You're not gonna believe me."

Beatrice's eyes narrowed. "Tell me," she insisted.

Bucky grinned ruefully. "Steve saved us. Schmidt had the factory rigged to blow, but he found me and we went looking for you. Escaped just in time, too. The whole place went up in flames thirty seconds after we got outside."

"But that still doesn't explain what  _Steve_ has to do with it," Beatrice said, and as if on cue, the entrance to the tent fluttered and Steve himself walked in.

It was Steve, but it wasn't Steve. It was as if someone had taken his head and placed it on an entirely different body—one who was at least six feet tall, taller than Bucky, with a broad chest and arms that were the size of Beatrice's legs. He wore the same olive drab SSR uniform that she had so often seen Ivan wear. The sight was so utterly bizarre that Beatrice could only stare at him in shock, unable to form words.

Steve looked sheepish, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. The gesture was so familiar to Beatrice, but it looked alien on this new body. "Hi, Beatrice," he said, glancing up at her sheepishly. His voice was exactly the same as she remembered, although with the rest of his outward appearance so changed it was hardly a consolation.

"I'm dreaming," Beatrice said, grabbing Bucky's arm without taking her eyes off Steve. "Wake me up."

"You're not dreaming," both boys said at the same time, and then exchanged that glance Beatrice knew so well. Whatever they decided on must have fallen to Steve, since he took a step toward them and hovered next to Bucky's chair, peering down at her almost shyly.

"Listen, ah, there's something I have to tell you," he stuttered.

"Really?" Beatrice deadpanned, while Bucky muttered, "Great opening."

Steve only looked even more flustered. "I, well, volunteered for an…experiment run by the SSR."

"An experiment," Beatrice said flatly.

"Yeah. They were trying to create an army of super soldiers to fight Hydra. I was spotted by one of the scientists—Erskine, d'you remember him?—and I somehow got recruited and, uh, became like this." He gestured to his new body. "But Erskine was killed before he could write down the formula."

Beatrice was sure she knew what was coming next, but waited for him to continue. "Senator Brandt didn't want to send me into battle, but decided that I was a great way to sell war bonds. So I became the army's dancing monkey and toured the country."

"You became Captain America," Beatrice finished. "All this time, I was listening to the radio and reading about  _Captain America_ when it was you all along." She shook her head slowly. She didn't want to believe it, but what better explanation was there?

"This is what happened when we left him alone, Rosie," Bucky said, looking up at his friend. "You think he would still have done this if we had been there?"

"Yes," said Beatrice; her mind was racing, thinking about the choice words she would have with Howard Stark the next time she saw him. "So you're an SSR agent now."

"Not quite," Steve said. "I'm more of their…prized possession."

"But you're not in pain anymore?"

Steve shook his head. "I'm healthy as a horse. Better, actually. Erskine said that the serum brought me to the peak of human potential." He looked ashamed yet disbelieving actually saying the words. Beatrice remembered the sensation of him lifting her up as if she was as light as a feather, and chose to believe him.

"Well, Steve, you got your wish and then some," Beatrice sighed. "But that still doesn't explain how you ended up here."

"Well, I was on a tour of Europe and when I ended up in Italy I found out that Bucky's unit had been captured. So I went after him and rescued the POWs before the place could blow up."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "So did the SSR approve that?"

Steve looked uncomfortable. "No. Howard Stark flew me over to Austria."

"Don't worry, I already hit him for you," Bucky said, spotting the glint in her eyes.

"Thanks," Beatrice told him. It was difficult to look away from Steve; she didn't know if she would ever get used to seeing him like this. She imagined it must be a thousand times harder for Bucky.

"Bucky told me what happened and we went looking for you," he continued.

"You shouldn't have," Beatrice protested. "You both could have died!"

Bucky scoffed. "You think either of us would be able to live with ourselves knowing we had just let you die in there?"

Steve nodded. "You were pretty heavily tranquilized. But your injuries have healed fast. Everyone's completely baffled by it."

"That's impossible. I…I was nearly dead." Beatrice stopped herself before she could speak further, shaking her head. Aside from the lump on her head and a dull ache in her ribs, she felt perfectly fine; certainly not like she had been tortured just days earlier. Seeing the worried looks on the boys' faces, she quickly added, "Schmidt…he looked like he had turned into some sort of monster. His entire head was red..."

"He calls himself the Red Skull," Steve said grimly. "Erskine's serum wasn't perfected when Schmidt took it."

"He was talking about a weapon. Do you know what he meant?"

Steve shook his head. "Not quite, although I did bring back one of their machine guns for testing. Hopefully it'll hold the clue to whatever Schmidt is trying to achieve."

"Besides world domination," muttered Bucky.

"The POWs have eyewitness accounts that Schmidt is assembling weapons to build a fleet of planes. That's the most we have," said Steve.

Beatrice glanced over at Bucky. "What did you tell them?"

Steve smiled faintly. "Bucky hasn't left your side since we brought you here. I've been trying to get him for a medical examination but he won't move."

"As soon as  _I_  can move I'll take care of him," Beatrice said, testing out the strength of her arms and legs. They appeared to be perfectly healed.

A tiny smirk appeared on Bucky's face. "Are you gonna make me take my clothes off?"

"I'll give you a sponge bath," Beatrice said flippantly; she didn't miss the look of utter bewilderment on Steve's face.

"I'll hold you to that," Bucky replied.

For a moment, her surroundings shifted, and they were no longer in a tent in Europe but in Steve's apartment in Brooklyn, sharing a lighthearted joke. Her heart ached with something that wasn't just nostalgia, but the realization that they could never go back to that life. None of them could go back to that level of innocence again.

"Is she awake?"

It was a female voice this time, speaking just outside of the tent, and once Beatrice only vaguely recognized.

Steve immediately snapped to attention. "Yes, she is," he said, and a brunette woman stepped inside. She was the same woman who had spoken to Howard when Beatrice had first met him—Peggy Carter.

"Captain Rogers," Peggy said, giving him a nod; he saluted her and Beatrice saw that he already appeared flustered. "Sergeant Barnes," she acknowledged Bucky, who also nodded to her.

"I hope you are recovering well, Nurse Hartley," Peggy said briskly, stopping in front of Beatrice's cot and giving her a short smile. "If there is anything you need, please don't hesitate to tell us."

"Thank you," said Beatrice. "I'm feeling a lot better, actually."

"Well, when you are fully recovered, Colonel Phillips would like to speak to you. Steve, you're needed right now to look at some designs that were recovered from the Hydra facility."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve said, and with another apologetic grin at Beatrice, he followed Peggy out of the tent.

Bucky suddenly cocked his head to the side, listening to something outside. "I think your friends have heard that you're awake," he said, and sure enough, Beatrice heard three sets of footsteps fast approaching the tent—strange, since she hadn't been able to hear that well before, as well as the distinct sounds of Diana, Caroline's and Ruth's voices. Quickly pushing it to the back of her mind, she smiled at Bucky and prepared for the onslaught of questions.

* * *

The next days were a blur of whirlwind activity. Not long after Beatrice managed to convince her friends that she was completely fine (the rest of the field hospital who had been captured had been put to work at the Hydra facility but all of them had come out relatively unscathed, according to Caroline) she was called in to see Colonel Phillips, who questioned her about everything she had seen after being captured. Beatrice answered to the best of her abilities, trying to remember exactly what Schmidt and Zola had said when they thought she couldn't hear. She did, however, omit the fact that she had been experimented on by Zola, instead skipping straight from when she had been bleeding on the floor of the laboratory to when she'd woken up at the camp. Phillips didn't question this, although Beatrice was sure he knew she was hiding something.

When she confessed that she had given Schmidt her uncle's whereabouts, she expected the colonel to become angry, to admonish her for breaking under pressure. But Phillips didn't say a word, only encouraging her to continue speaking after she'd faltered in her account of the narrative. His level expression didn't waver for an instant. Then again, Beatrice was sure his only two facial expressions were stoicism and displeasure.

"I take full responsibility for my actions, sir," she told him. "If there are any repercussions against Ivan or the SSR as a result of this—"

"Oh, I don't think there will be," Phillips replied, folding his hands on the table in front of him. "Agent Romanov is perfectly safe, and not, as it turns out, in Stalingrad."

Beatrice paused, sure she had heard wrong. "Pardon me, sir?"

Something almost resembling a smile tugged at the corner of Phillips' mouth. "His house in Stalingrad is empty. Schmidt won't be able to find evidence that anyone has ever lived there."

Shock coursed through her, and she could only stare blankly at the colonel. "But how?" she stammered.

"Well, Nurse Hartley, I guess you could say that he is a very lucky man." Phillips abruptly stood and began to make his way out of the tent. "I'd advise you to pack your things, as the rest of the camp is being sent to London tomorrow." And with that, he was gone, leaving Beatrice with her mouth open in astonishment.

* * *

She didn't have much time to ponder his words, though, as soon afterwards, she and the rest of the nurses were indeed sent to London. The army plane that arrived for them, a C-47 Skytrain, wasn't large enough to fit all of the nurses on it, and since the only other available C-47 was being used to carry the POW soldiers, a group of several dozen nurses were left behind to wait for several hours before it returned to Italy. Steve and Bucky ended up leaving first, along with a band of five other G.I.'s Bucky had been captured alongside and subsequently became close to during his imprisonment: Timothy Dugan (who was now being called "Dum Dum" for reasons Beatrice couldn't understand); an Englishman and a Frenchman always at each other's throats named James Falsworth and Jacques Dernier, respectively; a cheerful African-American named Gabriel Jones; and a Japanese-American, Jim Morita, who had a biting wit. Beatrice never would have thought such a diverse group of men would get along so well (relatively, in the case of Dernier and Falsworth), but they all appeared to have bonded over their shared experiences in confinement. Another thing Schmidt had gotten wrong, Beatrice thought. What he expected would tear them apart had in actuality brought them closer together.

While she waited for the plane to return, huddled under the overhang of a tent away from the cold rain, she listened to the nurses' conversation. Apparently all of the POW's, including the nurses, were required to undergo a strict psychological evaluation before returning to the continent. They could choose to go home if they so wished and be honorably discharged. Beatrice could tell that Caroline and Ruth had seriously been considering it—but after Caroline mused there was nothing for her to do back in Detroit but wait for her fiancé to come home, and Ruth was hesitant to leave Nicholas Barton, the young corporal she'd only become closer to during their imprisonment, Beatrice knew that their minds were already made up.

"What are you going to do?" Diana asked her suddenly. Beatrice had been so lost in thought that it took her a moment to realize she was the one being addressed.

"Huh? Oh…I mean…I don't know yet," she said. It was only partly a lie—she knew what she  _wanted_  to do, which was to go back home and never have to think about the war or Hydra again. But what would that accomplish, really? It wouldn't erase the memories of what had happened to her, nor would it bring back Bucky and Steve. So much of the life she had left behind was due to them; would she be able to live with the knowledge that she was on a separate continent hiding while they continued to put their lives on the line? No, she couldn't. So it was without any false conviction that she added, "But knowing me, I'll probably end up staying."

She expected the others to nod in agreement and understanding; instead, they exchanged unreadable glances among themselves. "Are you sure you want to do that?" Caroline asked. "Nobody would blame you if you wanted to leave."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Beatrice said, a bit taken aback. "As long as I pass the evaluation. You guys were captured, too."

"But we didn't spend weeks in the isolation ward," Ruth pointed out.

Had it really been weeks? Beatrice could have sworn it had been days, if even that. "Well, I wasn't completely isolated," she stuttered, not quite able to hide the catch in her voice.

As usual, Diana cut straight to the heart of the matter: "You want to stay with James Barnes," she said. Two identical looks of realization dawned over Caroline's and Ruth's faces.

"I should have guessed!" Caroline exclaimed. "I saw the way he looked at Beatrice. God, if we both weren't already taken I would have made a pass at him."

Slightly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken, Beatrice tried to argue against Bucky being the sole reason why she had decided to stay in Europe, but her protests only fell on deaf ears. She  _did_ want to stay to continue to be a nurse independent of Bucky, but she also couldn't pretend that he and Steve weren't a huge part of her decision to do so. Standing a ways away from her three friends, who were laughing at a shared joke she hadn't heard, she felt a strange sense of isolation that was so stifling she had to turn away again, and stared out at the pouring rain.

* * *

The SSR headquarters in London were almost entirely underground, a sprawling labyrinth of rooms and hallways that stretched across several blocks. Safe from prying eyes, and a refuge during air raids, it was difficult for Beatrice to believe that nearly a hundred agents worked there, passing messages between the SSR and various government agencies as they literally fought underground against Hydra. In fact, the only aboveground area housed the barracks, which weren't unlike the ones at Camp Lehigh—the only difference being that here, the windows were covered at all times by blackout curtains. The rescued nurses and the few female SSR agents—including Peggy Carter and Phillips' personal secretary, Lorraine—mingled freely amongst each other. Beatrice suspected that the men's barracks were much more crowded.

During her first tour of the facility, Beatrice remarked that she never would have guessed there was a quasi-city hidden dozens of feet below the ground. Her guide of sorts, who happened to be none other than a smirking Howard Stark, proudly informed her that not only had he donated vast sums of money to aid the SSR in constructing the base, he had also been instrumental in its creation. "London's sewer system dates back eighty years, and the Underground is just as old as that. Besides—" Here his smirk turned even more infuriating, "—MI6 wasn't happy when we took over the tunnel that houses the most secure phone line directly to the White House. Now they're forced to listen to us."

Beatrice crossed her arms and tried to hide her smile as Howard preened like a duck showing off his brood. "The Whip & Fiddle is the best pub in London, and it's only a block away," he informed her.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said dryly. All morning she had waited patiently for him to mention Steve or Ivan. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't said a word.

Howard stopped in front of a set of double doors at the end of a long hallway, gesturing to them with a flourish. "And here is the war room," he announced. "Phillips is probably hosting a meeting today, but frankly I don't keep track of these things." He moved to open the doors, but Beatrice stopped him, stepping in front of the handle and blocking his path. "Listen, Howard," she said firmly. "Why did you choose Steve Rogers for Project Rebirth? You knew he was my friend, and you knew that he could easily have been killed if anything went wrong with the experiment."

"Well, you only have yourself to blame for that, kid," Howard said. He quickly held up his hands when he saw the fire in her eyes. "Listen, I didn't know the guy at all. I worked on developing the serum—I didn't have a hand in choosing who it was used on. That was all Erskine. And maybe,  _maybe_ if you hadn't even introduced them in the first place—"

"I didn't introduce them!"

"Then why did Rogers tell me that he first learned about the SSR through you?" Seeing Beatrice's shoulders slump in defeat, Howard continued, "If you hadn't done  _that_ , maybe he wouldn't have been so quick so agree to be a lab rat for us, and Erskine wouldn't have been so interested in him that he tracked the kid down at the World Expo!"

Logically, Beatrice knew he was right—it wasn't Howard's fault at all. But Erskine, the only other person she could blame for Steve's transformation, was dead, and she didn't have the heart to blame  _him._ "Fine, I suppose you're right," she muttered, but Howard wasn't finished yet.

"Besides, it wasn't your choice to decide that for him," he said, sounding wiser than Beatrice expected of him. "Rogers volunteered of his own free will, and he knew the risks involved when he did. You can't take responsibility for everything. Look, I know you're close to the guy and don't want to see him in danger. But you have to respect his choice."

"That doesn't mean I have to  _like_  it," she said stubbornly, reluctantly stepping away from the doors.

Howard chuckled. "You sound exactly like Ivan. Oh, by the way, remember that psychological evaluation Phillips is making you go through before he lets you back out there?"

"Yes," Beatrice said slowly.

"You just passed it." Grinning at the look of bafflement on her face, Howard nodded at the doors. "And speaking of your uncle, there's something in there you'll want to see." Gently nudging her out of the way, he opened the door and stepped inside, Beatrice cautiously following him.

The war room was smaller than she would have thought, lamps burning low at intervals along the walls. A long oval table sat in the middle of the room, a map of Europe pinned to the wall above it. Differently-colored markers were stuck into it—at least one in every country. But Beatrice was looking at the man who sat at the head of the table, a small golden box resting on the wood in front of him.

"Uncle Ivan!" she exclaimed, unable to believe her eyes. He smiled at her, although there was something sorrowful in his expression.

"Hello, Beatrice. Please have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair beside him.

"I thought you said that Phillips was hosting a meeting here," Beatrice accused, whirling around to face Howard.

The inventor shrugged carelessly. "Guess I was wrong." But she saw him wink at Ivan. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, before exiting the room with his usual flair, shutting the door behind him.

Beatrice looked quizzically at her uncle, who was watching her closely. "I have been briefed on what happened to you in Austria at the hands of Johann Schmidt," he explained. "I—I cannot properly express the horror and regret I feel at knowing what I inadvertently exposed you to."

"It's not your fault," she replied. "Schmidt would have tortured and killed me whether I knew any information or not."

Ivan shook his head. "It is no one's fault but my own, Beatrice. Not only have I taken your brother away from you, I was responsible for the suffering you endured." He glanced away from her, his eyes glassy, down to the golden box on the table. It was barely the size of his palm. "I have been keeping things from you—things you deserve to know. I hope that by telling you what I ought to have explained before I ever left New York, you will gain a better understanding of why I took Henry, and why I am here now."

Beatrice hardly dared to breathe. "And if Schmidt finds me again?"

Ivan's lips twitched. "Knowledge will only get him so far."

Before she could ask him what he meant, Ivan placed his hand over the box, flipping up the clasp that held the top down. "Is it a bomb?" Beatrice asked warily.

Now Ivan wore a full-fledged smile. "Far from it. I should warn you, though, that only I, Howard, and Chester Phillips know what is inside here, or even that it exists at all. Not even Luisa knows the full story."

"I understand," Beatrice said, acknowledging his implication. Her heart pounded as Ivan flipped the lid open and carefully lifted out the object inside. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it hadn't been that of a gem, strongly resembling a piece of quartz. It glistened in the light, colors of the rainbow refracting off it as Ivan turned it over in his hand. He closed his eyes briefly before opening them again seconds later, wearing a satisfied expression.

"It is important to know the history behind this before I explain to you what it is," Ivan said, correctly guessing her thoughts. "How much of our family's stories did Elena tell you?"

Beatrice had been staring, transfixed, at the gem, and quickly moved her gaze back up to his. "Like the myths?" she asked. "Well, she told me them quite often as a child. Bedtime stories. I…I stopped believing in them a long time ago."

"Then she also told you of Asgard? Of Yggdrasil and the Nine Realms?"

"Yes," Beatrice said, unsure where he was going with this train of questioning. "Is that what Schmidt wanted to know?"

Ivan nodded slowly. "He does know some of it, but not the full story."

She took a deep breath. "And are you…are you going to tell me that all of that is  _real?"_

"Everything Elena told you is true," Ivan said softly. "All the stories aren't stories at all, but history. I didn't believe it at first, either."

Beatrice was shaking her head without really registering that she was. "That's impossible," she said. "They're myths. Schmidt is…is insane."

"Tell me, Beatrice, is it any more difficult to believe than machine guns turning objects to dust? Of disintegrating them entirely?"

When she didn't respond, Ivan sat back in his chair, still holding the gem. He stared down at it, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Hear me out, and then you can choose whatever you want to believe. It will be…a shock."

Beatrice's mouth opened and then closed again, deciding it was best not to protest. She was very sure that she didn't want to hear what he was going to tell her, but she couldn't see any way to leave now.

"Roughly a thousand years ago," Ivan began, his voice sounding faraway, "A battle between the Asgardians, led by the Allfather Odin, and the Frost Giant Laufey, took place on Earth. The humans of the time worshipped the Asgardians as gods and vowed to aid Odin in any way possible. Of course, as both races are vastly more powerful than humans, there was little we  _could_  do. Our greatest asset came in knowing the land and strategizing for battle." Ivan began tracing a pattern on the gem with his finger. "Eventually this was enough to tip the balance in the Asgardians' favor, and the Frost Giants were defeated. As a reward, Odin gifted the humans who had assisted him with an Asgardian gem called the Norn Stone that gave its user a very specific set of powers."

"Which you're saying is that stone, right?" Beatrice asked, unable to help herself.

Ivan raised his eyebrows. "I am not just  _saying_  it, I  _know_  it. But I am getting ahead of myself. You see, Odin and Laufey were warring over the rightful possession of an artifact known only as the Tesseract, its powers being strong enough to wipe out entire planets. Odin knew that Laufey would never give up searching for it, so with the help of humans, he entrusted it into their care. My research showed that it was hidden in a church in Norway for many centuries before Schmidt unearthed it, likely sometime within the past year."

Beatrice struggled to piece together his words. "So…the weapon that Schmidt was talking about…is this Tesseract?"

"The very same one," Ivan confirmed. "I believe that he has somehow harnessed its powers to create weapons—weapons you have already seen the destructive capabilities of." Beatrice thought of the agonizing pain she had felt when she had been knocked out, and shuddered at the memory.

Ivan suddenly looked downcast, as if he knew what she was remembering. "But back to the Norn Stone. This," he said, and placed it on the table in front of Beatrice, who shied away from it, "was given to an ancestor of the Romanovs by Odin Allfather himself. But at some point the stone became lost and it, along with the tale of the Asgardian-Frost Giant war, became nothing more than a myth in the minds of later generations. When I first arrived in Russia, researching our family's history, I found a mention of the stone in a textbook, and spent many years searching for it. I finally discovered it hidden in a cave in Siberia, and nearly got myself killed trying to retrieve it. That was shortly before I went to work for Howard, hoping for a less dangerous job." Ivan grinned wryly. "I mentioned earlier that it reveals its powers to each user uniquely. Its powers are purely defensive rather than offensive. Phillips wanted to see if it could be harnessed like the Tesseract was, but that is not how this particular artifact works."

"And what do you see?"

Ivan finally met her gaze. "I can see my enemies. Well, not  _see_ them exactly, but I can sense where they are. It has proved invaluable to me when I wish to flee Hydra. It is why I have not been killed yet. I knew that Hydra was coming to New York—it is the reason why I left for Russia. I took Henry with me because I knew he would be safer when I knew where the danger was. And I sensed Schmidt getting closer when he finally learned of my true location. So I fled here, to London, and Luisa and Henry are in a safe place."

Beatrice couldn't believe what she was hearing, but, like the reason for Steve's transformation, what other explanation was there? She exhaled shakily, sitting back in her chair and staring at the stone. "It's a...it's a lot to take in," she faltered. "But…at least it explains why you were so eager to take Henry to Russia. And why Phillips was confident that you weren't in Stalingrad."

"Even if Schmidt knows where I am, I will know where  _he_ is first and be able to escape as needed." Ivan smiled kindly at her. "I apologize for this, Beatrice. I wanted to explain this to you more gently, and under less unfortunate circumstances."

She took a deep breath. "I think it'll take some time for me to fully accept it," Beatrice said. "But…I  _do_ want to know…what other powers does it have?"

"I am not sure," Ivan admitted. "I have not allowed anyone but myself to touch it. Perhaps there is a spell on it that is only restricted to Romanovs. But it should respond to you." He nodded. "Go ahead and see."

"Are you sure?" Beatrice asked. Curiosity was beginning to overpower her, so when Ivan nodded, she slowly reached out, her hand shaking. Her mind was whirling with the information he had just told her, and the knowledge that if he was correct, the universe as she'd thought she'd known it would be tilted on its axis—

Her fingertips barely brushed the stone and she suddenly jerked in her seat as if she had been thrown forward: images flashed through her mind so quickly that she could barely process them: a glimpse of metal; something red, white and blue; a pair of glowing crimson eyes; a city with glass skyscrapers that reached up to the clouds; and—an enormous golden gauntlet, charred and blackened as if it had been damaged beyond repair.

No sooner had the fifth image rushed through her head than the vision stopped, and she was breathing heavily, her head slumped over. Ivan had gotten out of his chair and was standing over her, a cautious hand placed on her shoulder as she struggled to come back to reality.

"What is it, Beatrice? What happened?" Ivan's voice was concerned, almost urgent: he held out a glass of water to her and Beatrice took it gratefully.

"I think—" she gulped, staring blankly at the map of Europe, "I think I saw the future."

* * *

Beatrice didn't get much of a chance to see Bucky or Steve until that Friday night. She supposed that Bucky could have theoretically snuck into the women's barracks, where men were forbidden, but she also knew that Peggy Carter would have no qualms about hitting him over the head with a heavy object if he'd done so. The woman was a force of nature unto herself; Beatrice had never met anyone quite like her, male or female. Being equally intimidated and slightly awed by her, she could see why Steve always looked gobsmacked in her presence, but she could also see admiration and the look of someone who had just been hit squarely in the chest by Cupid's arrow. Beatrice was gently amused by Steve's obvious infatuation, but there was a sour twist of something deep inside her stomach that she couldn't explain nor suppress entirely, no matter how hard she tried. Still, her amusement greatly outweighed whatever… _that_ was, so she tried not to give it too much thought, and told herself that the only reason she stayed out of Peggy's way was because she was intimidated by her.

Diana and Caroline had already left for the Whip & Fiddle, arm-in-arm and giggling, while Ruth had snuck out with Nicholas Barton immediately after supper. It was common knowledge around the barracks that they often spent the nights together at one of the local inns, but seeing as how both of them always showed up for duty precisely on time, Phillips couldn't do anything about it. Beatrice still hadn't quite gotten over the realization that quiet, polite Ruth was doing such a thing, but then again, she was hardly one to talk.

The sound of high heels clicking purposefully on the wooden floor made Beatrice look up from where she was writing a letter to Angie, telling her that she was safe and in London. Her eyes widened when she saw that Peggy wore a deep crimson dress with a plunging neckline, a matching necklace hanging low on her throat. The other woman selected a tube of lipstick from her drawer and applied it with ease; she barely had to look in the mirror. Beatrice watched out of the corner of her eye, slightly envious. She'd never had an older sister or friend to teach her how to put on makeup, and felt strangely like a little girl admiring her sister getting ready to go on a date.

As if she could read her thoughts, Peggy's sharp eyes flickered to hers and a tiny smile appeared on her ruby-red lips. "Aren't you coming to the pub?" she asked. "The SSR has booked the entire place for the night."

Beatrice blinked, flailing around for an excuse. "I, um, no," she finally said bluntly.

Peggy arched an eyebrow. "I hear that Sergeant Barnes will be there."

This time Beatrice really didn't know what to say—was the relationship between her and Bucky that obvious? Agent Carter didn't seem like the type to sit around gossiping about men—then again, she seemed interested enough in lipstick. Nonetheless, Beatrice's heart quickened at the thought of seeing Bucky for longer than a split second in passing. "I don't have anything to wear," she finally admitted, ashamed at revealing that she didn't own any appropriate clothes aside from her SSR-issued uniforms.

Peggy seemed unconcerned by this revelation. "So?" she asked, fastening a watch onto her wrist. "There isn't a dress code. But if you're exceptionally bothered by it, I believe I have one that you can borrow."

"A what?" Beatrice asked, uncomprehending.

"A dress," Peggy repeated, as if she was talking to a child. Again she reached into the chest of drawers and pulled out a navy blue evening gown that looked as if it would fit Beatrice, despite being several inches too long.

"Thank you, Agent Carter," she stammered, holding it up to herself and staring in the mirror.

"Call me Peggy," the other woman said, with the hint of a smile. "Now hurry up. We don't want to be late."

* * *

The pub reminded Beatrice of the dance hall in Brooklyn, with its smoky, laid-back atmosphere. Raucous laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the entire building. She paused at the door, searching for Steve or Bucky, but the voice she heard calling her name belonged to neither of them.

"Hey, Beatrice!" Dugan called, and waved her over. Peggy had already disappeared ahead of her.

"Hi, Dugan," she told him, making her way over to the men's table, where he, Jones, Morita, Dernier and Falsworth appeared to be enjoying the drinks a little bit too much. Dernier and Jones were having a conversation entirely in French while Falsworth and Morita were discussing what sounded like battle tactics. Dugan nodded at them, grinning proudly.

"We're going after Hydra!" he announced. "Rogers was able to remember what he'd seen on a map in the factory, and Phillips thinks the markers are locations of Hydra bases. The colonel wanted Steve to pick the best men to go back into battle, and looks like we were his top choices."

Beatrice could see why; they made a good team, but she guessed Bucky would be going too. She felt her heart sink, and tried to smile past her sudden fear.

"Plus he said he'd buy us drinks," Gabe Jones added in English, and the men burst into raucous laughter.

"Can't argue with that logic," Beatrice said dryly.

"You looking for Jimmy?" Dugan asked. "He's over by the bar."

Beatrice nodded and, thanking them, went to go find him. Her stomach churned.

Bucky was hunched over at the bar, separate from everyone else, staring down into a lowball glass of what Beatrice assumed was whiskey. He glanced up as she approached; she saw his eyes widen in surprise and pleasure. He immediately stood up, and Beatrice closed the distance between them in quick, hurried strides, throwing her arms around him and holding on to him as tightly as possible, not caring who saw. She could smell alcohol and the smoke that clung to his clothes as she pressed her face tightly into his shirt, burrowing into him, trying to suppress the sobs that threatened to escape. Here was Bucky, the only solid thing in her constantly spinning and shifting world. She never wanted to let go of him again.

He pulled her even closer, his hands settling naturally on the curve of her waist. His mouth found her ear. "I've been waiting for you all evening, Rosie," Bucky murmured, drawing back to greedily stare at her. "I didn't know you had a dress like that."

Beatrice felt a familiar heat rise to her cheeks under his appreciative gaze, although she had been confident enough when he'd seen her in much less. "Actually, it's not mine," she admitted. "Agent Carter lent it to me." She glanced across the room as she spoke, searching for the other woman. Peggy's dress was easy to spot—she and Steve were standing over by the pool table, talking. Peggy inclined her head in acknowledgement when she noticed Beatrice looking over at them. Steve turned too, and raised his drink in greeting. Beatrice thought he smiled, but she couldn't be quite sure—it disappeared as quickly as it came, and he continued to watch her and Bucky solemnly before Peggy said something and he turned back to her.

"You should have seen Steve's face when she walked in," Bucky smirked as they took their seats at the bar, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"She's very pretty," Beatrice offered, leaning into him.

Bucky shrugged and drained his glass in one. "I guess."

The pause that followed afterward gave Beatrice ample opportunity to study him. She wanted to tell him so much. She wanted to tell him about her fear that Zola had done something terrible to her—to both of them—and that she was in equal parts joyful and jealous that the rest of the world was finally looking at Steve in the way only the two of them had once been able to see, and her worry that Hydra was a bigger threat than anyone knew, and the horrible vision she had seen in the Norn Stone. She wanted to confide to him that there was a part of her that desperately wanted to go home, to Brooklyn and safety. She hoped that he could see it in her eyes. For if Bucky truly believed that she could  _see_ him, as he described it, then it stood to reason that he could see her as well. She worried about him, too: the way his hand shook slightly as he held the glass, the whiskey he was drowning quicker than the bartender could refill it, the way he hadn't bothered to put on a tie or smooth out the creases in his Class A's, the slightly vacant, haunted look in his eyes. Beatrice wondered if she had that look, too, but she couldn't see any difference when she looked in the mirror. Maybe it was something only other people could notice.

Bucky glanced sideways at her, his eyes intently searching her face. Beatrice stared, puzzled, back at him, wondering what he was looking for, before he sat back. "I guess the guys have already told you that I'm going after Hydra with Steve," he said.

"I know," Beatrice replied. "I'm going back to the front with the other nurses."

A look of concern flashed across his face. "Are you sure, Rosie? It'll be dangerous—maybe even more now that you escaped. Phillips gave you the option to go back to New York."

She fixed him with a level stare. "I could say the same thing about  _you._ I won't be actively fighting."

Bucky sighed in defeat. "Sorry. I guess I'm still just used to telling Steve no."

Beatrice felt a smile flit across her face as she reached up to comb away the hair that was falling over his forehead. He rested the side of his head in her palm, staring up at her. "When are you leaving?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Whenever they tell me to. I…" He cleared his throat, suddenly looking very vulnerable. "This is something I have to do, Rosie. I have to go after Hydra. And I'm going to kill Zola myself."

"Oh, Bucky," Beatrice whispered. "Isn't it enough that you escaped? Do you have to put yourself in danger to get revenge, too?"

Bucky lifted his head and suddenly clenched his fists, his voice dropping low and urgent, difficult for anyone to overhear in the din and loud chatter of the pub. "He did something to me, Rosie," he whispered fiercely. "Whatever happened to you, Zola did it to me, too. You said that your injuries healed more quickly than you thought possible. Well, so have mine."

With a jolt, Beatrice realized that he was right: the bruise above his eye had completely healed, even though it had been less than a week since they'd escaped Zola's laboratory, and the deep gash across his throat that she had been sure needed stitches was gone. "If you ever find out what happened, tell me," she said shakily.

"I will." Bucky looked solemn, throwing back the rest of his drink with a practiced air. Beatrice had lost count of how many drinks he'd had since she had arrived, not to mention however many he had downed before she'd seen him. No wonder the bartender looked so pleased.

She was on the verge of asking for a drink herself when he turned back to her, his expression having morphed from cold determination to something much more unguarded, almost strained. "Listen, Rosie..." Bucky began, meeting her eyes warily. "You don't regret it, then?" He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "What we did in there?"

It took Beatrice a moment to realize what he was talking about. Neither of them had broached the topic of what they had done in the Hydra cell since it had happened, and she was relieved to see he sounded almost as awkward as she felt. "Of course I don't regret it," Beatrice said firmly. "It was worth it, you know." And she was telling the truth. She would have taken all of it—all the pain, all the torture—if it meant she got to spend those precious few hours with Bucky again. It hadn't been exactly what she'd envisioned when she imagined being intimate with a man for the first time—it wasn't her wedding night, for one thing, and they hadn't even had a bed—but she regretted none of it.

A slow, relieved smile spread across Bucky's face. He was looking at her like she had just saved his life, with a hint of desire simmering just beneath the surface that sent shivers across her skin. He opened his mouth, paused, broke their gazes, and then spoke again, his voice brimming with urgency. "And what I said about us getting married?" he asked; there was something pleading, imploring in his expression.

Beatrice's breath caught. "I—I thought you were joking!" she exclaimed.

Bucky kept his gaze steady, his eyes fixed on hers. "I wasn't joking, Rosie," he said, and his voice cracked slightly with the weight of whatever emotions he was holding back. It was impossible for Beatrice to look away from him. She knew he was burning with unspoken thoughts. "I was serious. I meant every word of what I said in there, you know."

Shock flooded her body. Bucky looked taut with tension, his hand tight on the glass. He looked, for lack of a better word, terrified. "Listen, you don't have to answer now—" he said, assuming that she was going to refuse, but Beatrice was already nodding. She had gone straight from disbelief to understanding without any conscious input from her brain. It would be foolish to refuse him now.

"Yes, Bucky," she said, the words strong and sure. "I'll marry you." She knew as she said it that it was right. She had wanted to marry him when he'd first brought up the notion, and she wanted to marry him now. Ironically, it was the most logical thing she could think of doing in these months filled with impossibilities.

Bucky's mouth fell open slightly, and now it was his turn to look thunderstruck—clearly, he hadn't expected her to accept so quickly, if at all. But then his face changed into an expression that Beatrice would never forget as long as she lived—overwhelming elation and delight—and then he suddenly pulled her right off the chair, crushing her close to him as he whirled her around the floor. She laughed in astonishment, staring up at the pure joy on his face. She still couldn't believe she could elicit such intensity from him.

"What's going on?" Dugan called, sticking his head into the room. Apparently they had made enough noise to alert the entire pub. Even the bartender had stopped wiping down the counter to watch them.

"We're getting married!" Bucky announced, sounding half-mad, and there was an outbreak of clapping as he dipped her low and kissed her in front of several dozen witnesses, one hand on her waist and the other cupping her head. He tasted like liquor and dirt and sweat, but Beatrice didn't care one bit. In that moment, he almost seemed like the old Bucky again, the one she had begun to fear was gone forever. Diana and Caroline whooped, running over to hug Beatrice as the men came over to slap Bucky on the back. Perhaps a little bit of cheer was what everyone needed.

Even Peggy looked faintly amused. But it was Steve who Beatrice was looking for, searching for his approval—and her heart gave a small, painful jolt when she saw that he was staring intently at them, something almost like a pained smile on his face. Beatrice made to go over to him, but then his smile softened and he broke their gazes as he went over to congratulate his best friend.

* * *

Soon afterwards, Bucky excused himself to go to the restroom, surprising no one, and Beatrice was left sitting by herself. She stared at his empty glass and declined the bartender's offer for a drink. How was it possible to feel this mingled exaltation and fear? She was ecstatic that she was going to marry Bucky, giddy with joy, but she was also filled with fear. There were so many things that could go wrong. All she wanted was for them to be back in Brooklyn safely, not to mention the fact that they would likely have to wait for the war to end before they could get married.

Steve slid into the chair beside her, smiling. Peggy was nowhere to be seen. "Congratulations," he said, eyes crinkling. "I'll be honest, I didn't know things were that serious between you and Bucky."

Beatrice grinned ruefully back, running her fingers around the rim of Bucky's empty glass. "Neither did I," she admitted. "But I think the war forced us to confront everything. We probably would still be on our first date if we were in Brooklyn."

"I hope you don't mind that I'm borrowing him for a while." Steve tried to sound flippant. "I promise I'll bring him back in one piece."

"You better," Beatrice teased, and they both laughed, sitting in companionable silence. Steve was absent-mindedly drawing patters on the tabletop, as if imagining a sketchbook. Beatrice watched him for a moment, studying the differences and similarities between the boy she had known and this new model. Aside from the obvious physical differences, Steve carried himself differently, no longer hunched over as if trying to take up the least amount of space possible. He spoke with a firm, sure voice—Beatrice had never really considered that he would make a good leader until she had seen him speaking to members of the SSR. Even so, there were moments, fleeting though they were, that he seemed to suddenly come to and blink around confusedly, or trip over his words, or turn red, or misjudge his height, that betrayed the fact that the tiny, sickly boy with a heart of gold was still in there, just in a new form. It was as if Steve's outward appearance had changed to match who he was inside all along, Beatrice mused. Still, it was a lot to take in at once, and she had only known him for the better part of a year—as close as they had been. She almost opened her mouth to tell him what Zola had done to her and Bucky, before thinking better of it. Bucky's story wasn't hers to tell, anyway, and even though she trusted Steve with her life, she didn't trust the SSR if they somehow got word of it. She was certain Phillips would have no qualms about studying her like one might study an insect, and seeing as how no ill effects had come of it—quite the opposite, in fact—Beatrice felt it best to keep silent for now.

"Steve," she began quietly, and he looked curiously at her, "I…I want to apologize for the way I reacted when I saw you after I woke up. I'm really happy for you. It couldn't have turned out any better. Really."

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, perhaps the happiest she'd seen from him yet that evening. "You were fine, Beatrice," he told her. "Bucky wasn't joking when he said he did hit me. He couldn't believe I'd done it. Actually, you know what, he probably could believe it."

Beatrice laughed quietly. "You saved both of us, Steve. I owe you my life twice over now."

He turned red and ducked his head in that endearing way he had. "You don't owe me anything, Beatrice."

"But you owe  _me_  another drink," a joking voice said. Both Steve and Beatrice turned to see Bucky standing behind them. He was grinning. "I told you that you'd get involved in this war somehow, Steve."

"Really?" Steve asked innocently. "I don't quite recall that conversation. Is it still legal if one of the parties has no memory of the bet?"

Beatrice watched them banter with a smile, but even she could sense the tension behind their playfulness. They were both trying to act like nothing had changed—whether for her sake or their own, she wasn't sure, but she knew that she wasn't the only one who could see storm clouds gathering in the distance. She could sense something coming, like a train rumbling ever closer while she was tied to the tracks, powerless to stop it or try to wriggle free. None of them were the same person that they had been even five months ago, and she wanted nothing more than to turn back time and go back to her old life.


	23. XXIII

**1944**

**Lyon, France**

No sooner had the 107th Field Hospital moved to France after spending the winter in a relatively quiet area of northern Spain, than there was a particularly bloody battle on the Swiss border and the survivors were rushed to the camp. Unfortunately, there weren't many of them—according to eyewitness accounts it had been more of a slaughter than a battle, the enemy simply storming in and picking them off a few dozen at a time. Flynn suspected Hydra was behind it—Beatrice heard him say as much to one of the other doctors while she was searching for supplies. She privately suspected it was Hydra, too. There had been numerous reports since the new year of heavily-armed soldiers with devastating weaponry that didn't look anything like standard-issue machine guns. The strangest part about it, though, was that the soldiers were indiscriminate about who they killed, whether they were American and British or even German and Italian troops. Hydra certainly didn't care about the Geneva Conventions, but this was as if they were fighting an entirely different war. And it certainly did line up with what Ivan had said about Schmidt having no loyalties to any country or leader. But whatever his end goal was, it was killing ordinary G.I.'s faster than they could be replaced. The field hospital was turning into a morgue, and their supply of plasma was nearly depleted: a runner had been sent to the nearest evacuation hospital that morning, but wasn't expected to return until the following afternoon.

One patient during that particular wave hit Beatrice harder than most: he was her age, perhaps a year or two older, and had been shot in the brachial artery. His comrades had managed to slow the bleeding until he could be operated on, but once the bullet had been removed it was no use: it had been laced with arsenic and he would spend hours—minutes, if he was lucky—in hallucinations until he died. He must have been handsome once, with an angular face and bright eyes. He spent an hour calling out for his fiancée back home, only quieting when Beatrice had come over to him. She must have looked enough like the woman that the young soldier, fevered as he was, couldn't tell the difference. She had held his hand until he died, and had promptly gone outside and retched.

It wasn't just the horrific way he and so many of the other soldiers died—although Beatrice guessed less than half of them would survive—it was his resemblance to Bucky. What if  _her_ fiancé was somewhere out there at this very moment, getting shot at and then being rushed to a field hospital where a nurse would pretend to be Beatrice until he succumbed? Not only that, Bucky was actively going out and searching for Hydra. Super-soldier or not, Steve could only do so much against whatever advanced weaponry Schmidt was developing— _had_ already developed.

"It's pretty bad in there, huh?"

Beatrice slowly straightened up and turned around to look at Diana, who had followed her out of the tent. Diana's hair was falling out of its hasty chignon and her pristine white uniform was splattered with blood. Beatrice knew she didn't look any better. "It's horrible," she agreed hoarsely, tilting her head up to stare at the cloudless blue sky, bright with spring. It seemed astonishing that nature could be reborn with such lightness and vigor while lives were lost by the millions on its soil. "This has got to be one of the worst ones yet."

Diana looked sympathetic. "You're thinking about Barnes, aren't you?"

There was no use in lying, so Beatrice nodded. "I'm worried about him," she confessed. "I haven't gotten any letters in almost a month, and if this sort of thing is what he's up against—"

"Flynn would tell you if anything happened, you know he would," Diana replied. "Anyway, Ruth hasn't gotten a letter from what's-his-name since January."

"Nicholas," said Beatrice. "But that's different. Bucky is with the SSR—they have the most direct channels of communication available to them." She sighed, running a hand through her hair and scuffing her foot against the dirt. "But maybe you're right, Di. I'm just so anxious all the time. He's putting himself right out there and I can't do anything about it."

Diana's eyes flickered to something over Beatrice's shoulder and then back to her. She heard the quiet footsteps of someone approaching them and guessed that Diana was looking for a way to escape by engaging whoever it was in conversation so she wouldn't have to listen to Beatrice complain anymore. She didn't blame Diana; she wouldn't want to listen to herself. "You love him," Diana said matter-of-factly. "It's only natural to be worried."

"Still," Beatrice mumbled, and then childishly added, "I hope this war ends so we can go home and get married."

"So do I," a husky voice said from right beside her. Beatrice started, a gasp flying from her mouth as she whirled around to see Bucky himself standing not a foot away from her, covered in mud but looking triumphant.

For a full ten seconds that felt like it stretched on into eternity, Beatrice could only stare at him. She hadn't seen him in months. She had spent weeks dreaming about him and imagining their reunion and missing him so much it was a keen ache in her chest. She had watched the newsreels of the Howling Commandos as they traveled across Europe destroying as many Hydra bases as they could, searching for even the tiniest glimpses of him. Seeing as how he was right next to Steve's side in most of the footage, who was clearly the star of the films, she often didn't need to look far. But now that he was right here, standing next to her, she couldn't believe it.  _"Bucky?"_ she gasped.

"Who else?" he asked, and gave her a lopsided, almost hesitant smile that would have looked more familiar on Steve than him.

Her muscles suddenly unfroze, and she all but jumped on him, hoping he didn't hear the muffled sob that rose up from her throat. He pulled her so tightly against him that she was dimly surprised it didn't hurt, and felt his stubble scratching against her face. She didn't care how dirty he was. Raising her head, Beatrice looked past him at Diana, who had clearly seen him coming up behind her and deliberately subverted the conversation. She shrugged, grinning, and mouthed "I'll cover for you," before ducking back inside the tent.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Is everyone all right?"

"We're good," he told her. "We're all fine. Dernier has an old injury he wants to get checked out and Steve decided to pay a visit since we were already in the area."

"And you didn't?" Beatrice asked jokingly.

He half-shrugged. "'I'll admit I did encourage him."

Beatrice drew back from Bucky, about to pepper him with a dozen more questions, but before she could say anything he grabbed her face and kissed her, long and hungry, until her heart was pounding and her lungs were burning. It was a good thing they hadn't been seen, Beatrice thought as she gasped for air, her face flushed, or they would have gotten into serious trouble. Her head spinning crazily, she stared up at him. There was something burning behind his eyes, an intensity she had never seen before, not even when they had been trapped in Schmidt's cell. It almost scared her.

"Don't listen to him, Beatrice," she heard Steve say from behind her. "It was all his idea."

Giddiness flooded through Beatrice at the thought of having both boys with her again, and she untangled herself from Bucky's arms so she could run to Steve, nearly bowling him over—a remarkable feat—as she threw her arms around him happily. "I missed you and Bucky so much," she said, craning her neck to look up at his face—she didn't think she would ever get used to having to tilt her head so far up to see him.

"We missed you too, Beatrice," said Steve, hugging her back albeit a bit awkwardly. "Buck definitely has some stories about that." He glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, who must have made some gesture that caused Steve to smirk.

"How long are you here for?" Beatrice asked. "Bucky said that you were in the area…"

Steve nodded. "We've been investigating a Hydra facility in Lyon after receiving intel from the French Resistance. It was abandoned, but we found proof it's been used recently and some more weapons to turn over to the SSR."

Beatrice thought of the horrible ways in which she had seen many of the soldiers die. "We've noticed that they've upgraded," she said darkly, nodding in the direction of the tent. Steve's eyes hardened and he set his jaw in anger. She felt Bucky snake his arm around her waist.

"Howard thinks that Schmidt found some way to transfer the cube's energy into his weapons," Steve told her. "That's why they're so powerful."

"Mmmm," Beatrice said. "I don't suppose he might have gotten that theory from my uncle, by any chance?"

Steve grinned. "Well, he might have mentioned it in passing. Actually, Ivan accompanied us on one of our raids. Remember Monaco, Buck?"

"Yeah," said Bucky. "He's a pretty good shot."

"You didn't mention that in your letters!" Beatrice accused.

Bucky smiled down at her. "We didn't want to worry you," he said. "Besides, I wanted to tell you in person."

Beatrice had gotten a few letters from Ivan, mostly describing mundane life in the SSR. He'd been separated from Henry for quite a while, but she knew that her brother was safe with Luisa. Ivan had been careful not to disclose their exact location, but from the little hints he'd added here and there, Beatrice felt it safe to assume they were somewhere near the Black Sea. At least they weren't directly in the line of fighting.

"Hey, Cap!"

The three of them turned around to see Dugan sticking his head out of the tent. "The colonel wants to talk to you," he told Steve. "He didn't say anything about you, Barnes, so I'd suggest catching up with your girl while you can." He chuckled as Bucky threw him a colorful retort.

Steve nodded and began to follow Dugan. "I'll see you later, then?" he asked. Bucky gave him a mock salute in reply, and Steve disappeared inside the tent after giving Beatrice another smile.

Now Beatrice and Bucky were alone: she turned back to him and slid her hand into his. "I'll take you to the lake," she said, and began to lead him away from the camp.

* * *

The lake was a blessing to those at the field hospital: large and secluded, they were able to use it to wash their clothes, go swimming, or even escape to it when they needed space. It was surrounded by thick forest, yet easily accessible by a winding series of dirt paths, and the townspeople rarely came down or asked any questions if they did, in exchange for medical aid if one of the villagers became seriously ill. This sort of unspoken alliance was common in many of the towns they'd set up in: after being liberated from years of German occupation, the residents who hadn't been able to escape during the initial invasion were beyond grateful for Allied assistance, and in return those at the base camp were glad to experience a taste of civilization again, oftentimes setting up in abandoned homes and buildings. Beatrice had never before known the true luxury of sleeping in a real bed until then.

On their way to the lake, Beatrice and Bucky talked about everything and nothing at all. She confessed her worries, told him about the patients and the places they'd traveled around, while he told her funny stories about the Commandos. She knew he was editing out a lot of the actual reality of it.

"Please be honest," Beatrice said when they reached the shore. There was nobody else around, so she decided to lead him up to one of her favorite spots, a rocky embankment that was just large enough for two people to rest comfortably on a ways from the main path. Through the budding leaves, the glittering lake was still visible, its waters bright blue. "Are you getting anywhere with Hydra?"

Bucky sighed as she settled in his lap, neither willing to stop touching the other. "They must have been growing for years, Rosie. It seems as if every time we destroy one place, we find another. I know Steve's getting tired of it. I am too, honestly."

The leaves suddenly shook the previous night's rain onto them until their heads and shoulders were completely soaked. Beatrice didn't care; she didn't think Bucky did, either. He leaned toward her, one hand on her knee, the other cupping her face. He was so close that she could see individual water droplets clinging to the ends of his eyelashes. He stopped just as their foreheads touched; his entire body was taut with tension and his eyes roved over her face. His gaze was sharp-edged and alert, but swirling with emotion like a brewing storm. She caught a flash of that Brooklyn boy again, not the soldier with the thousand-yard stare, and she was suddenly overtaken with an urge to kiss him until neither of them could see straight.

"God, Rosie," Bucky murmured with a self-deprecating chuckle, "You have no idea how much I thought about you while we were gone."

"I hope I'm living up to your expectations now, then," Beatrice replied, slightly teasingly.

"You always do, sweetheart," he said, his thumb gently caressing the edges of her lips. "You always do."

Beatrice bent her head to kiss the palm of his hand before slipping her fingers through his again. "I don't want you to leave," she whispered.

He exhaled, his warm breath fanning across her face. "I don't want to leave, either," he admitted. "But I have to. Steve needs me."

 _I need you, too,_ Beatrice thought, and immediately despised herself for even thinking the words. She was so lucky to have him here right now, at this moment. Wouldn't she rather see him for even a few hours than not at all? "I can't argue with that," she said, and closed what little space there was between them.

They kissed softly for a moment, Bucky's hand coming up to wind in her hair, and Beatrice let out a little sigh of pleasure. It was sweet, gentle, exactly like how she'd once imagined her first kiss to be, but something was missing. Ignoring the part of her brain that was screaming at her to keep going, she pulled away from him slightly, just enough to speak. "Why are you holding back?" she murmured.

His lips twitched, a miniscule movement that might have been missed if she wasn't so close. "Because if I don't, we'll be here all afternoon," he said huskily.

Beatrice's heart seemed to stop for one beat before tearing off like it was in a race. She was tired of it all: tired of missing him, tired of moving every few months, tired of having to see bodies wheeled in every day and trying to save soldiers who never had a fighting chance in the first place. She was tired in a way that went beyond insufficient sleep; exhausted down to her bones. A good night's sleep in a comfortable bed wouldn't fix this. So really, Beatrice thought, was it so wrong if she and Bucky snuck off for a few hours? The world wouldn't end without them. And he was her fiancé; there was nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't anything they hadn't done before.

"So?" she asked. Bucky's eyes widened and he made a sound low in his throat—and they were suddenly kissing again, his mouth hard and insistent against hers. She gripped him by the shoulders and pushed him down so that she was bent over his face, straddling him. His arms were tight around her—had he really put on that much muscle in four months? Beatrice didn't remember him being so large—and his hands were roving across every inch of her body, caressing her face, her neck, her breasts, her legs…she impatiently reached for his coat and he shrugged it off, his mouth moving from her own to kiss along her jawline and down her throat, causing her to shudder and gasp.

"Bucky…" she began dimly, though she wasn't even sure what she wanted to say.

He murmured in response against her throat, and she could feel the rumble of his chest when he spoke. "You have no idea how many nights the thought of doing this to you again got me through," he said hoarsely. "If it hadn't been for Steve, Rosie…" He left his sentence unfinished, although Beatrice knew how it would have ended:  _We would have been married months ago. We would be back home._  But Beatrice couldn't hold that against Steve, and neither did Bucky. The war was bigger than the two of them, more important than them—running away together would have been the wrong choice, no matter how many times she might entertain the admittedly alluring thought.

Bucky took hold of her waist and flipped them over, maybe too enthusiastically, as they both went tumbling down the embankment, still in each other's arms, before finally coming to a stop at the base of a large yew tree. Beatrice laughed at Bucky's surprised and disgruntled expression, taking the opportunity to wrap her legs around his waist again. His hips dug into hers, his mouth finding her own, and now neither of them were holding back, gripping on to each other like they were lost at sea and the other was their only hope of rescue. All of the nights dreaming about this couldn't hold a candle to the real thing, Beatrice managed to think.

It was a testament to how utterly distracted they both were that they didn't realize someone was approaching until a twig snapped on the main path some twenty feet away. Both of them immediately froze, hands stilling on the other, their labored breathing the only sound apart from the light rustling of the leaves. The foliage was thick enough that they couldn't be seen, but if they made a sound—

But the voice calling to them was warm and familiar. "Bucky? Beatrice?" Steve asked, and Beatrice felt Bucky sigh in defeat as he rolled off of her, reaching for his coat. His shirt was halfway off his head and his trousers were undone, while Beatrice didn't fare much better, having to hurriedly do up the buttons on her uniform. Steve's timing had been something of a miracle; if he'd shown up only a few minutes later the situation would likely have been a lot more embarrassing.

When they were both fully dressed again, Bucky took her hand and pulled her up, keeping his arm around her as they climbed up the hill. "Foiled again," Beatrice muttered. She felt him laugh against her side.

When they stepped out onto the path in front of Steve, hand-in-hand with their clothes disheveled, the look of mingled exasperation and amusement on his face was almost worth it. "I should have known I'd find you here," he said, shaking his head. He stuffed his hands inside his pockets, the medals that decorated his SSR jacket glinting in the light. Beatrice was certain several more had been added since she'd last seen him.

Bucky scoffed, punching Steve lightly on the shoulder. "How do I know what you get up to with Agent Carter?" he said, a smirk on his face.

Even Steve's ears turned pink. "We don't  _get up to_ anything," he replied. "Who Peggy chooses to spend her time with is none of my business—"

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky said dismissively. "That's why you keep a picture of her in your compass. Did she give that to you, huh, pal?"

While Steve spluttered and stammered out a response that fooled no one, Beatrice found her thoughts turning to Peggy Carter. She hadn't seen the other woman since she'd been sent out into the field again, and wondered how she was doing. Beatrice hadn't properly thanked her for lending her a dress during the SSR party, and suddenly felt guilty. But there was that uncomfortable feeling in her stomach again, like she'd missed a step going downstairs, and she tore her eyes off Steve's blond hair to look at Bucky, who grinned at her and pressed his lips to the top of her head. She leaned into him, closing her eyes; just the sight of his face was enough to chase the dark thoughts away. She was protective of Steve, and why shouldn't she be? She didn't know Peggy well enough to gauge whether or not she was a good match for him. But that didn't matter, anyway: it was clear that Steve cared deeply for her. Beatrice just hoped that Peggy wouldn't break his heart.

But that really wasn't her business, was it? She had no say in who Steve fell in love with. Peggy was brusque and no-nonsense, while Steve, though an excellent leader, was hopeless when it came to women. It might not have seemed like an obvious attraction—then again, Beatrice never would have guessed that she, the quiet and reserved girl, would someday be engaged to the handsome and popular flirt Bucky Barnes. It was strange how life worked. She turned her head to him and whispered "I love you." It came out more like a breath than words, but she knew by the answering squeeze of Bucky's hand that he'd heard her.

With Bucky on one side of her and Steve on the other, Beatrice knew the only thing that mattered was that she was happy and with the boys— _her_ boys—again.


	24. XXIV

**Brussels, Belgium**

"I'm bored," Diana announced one hot, muggy day in the middle of August. "Who wants to go up to the castle with me and explore? Maybe we'll find a ghost or two—that place looks haunted enough."

Beatrice, who was content to spend her rare day off doing absolutely nothing, wasn't taken by the idea. "You know Flynn will never let us hear the end of it if he catches us," she said. "We're not even supposed to leave the camp."

Ruth nodded in agreement. "It looks dangerous, Di," she pointed out. "The foundation is probably falling apart."

But Caroline took Diana's side. "Come on," she said, rising from her seat next to the radio, which was broadcasting an old Captain America show, and grabbed her musette bag. "It'll be fun."

Diana leapt to her feet, looking smug. "At least there's one interesting person here," she added, linking her arm through Caroline's. "You two have fun doing—well, whatever it is you're doing."

Ruth was lying on her stomach sunbathing, while Beatrice was reading over Bucky's latest letter, trying to figure out exactly what he meant when he said they might be seeing each other soon. She didn't want to get her hopes up and assume that the Howling Commandos would suddenly decide to pay them a visit like they had in April. And as far as she knew, there weren't any SSR meetings planned where they would both be present. Still, as soon as she'd read the words she couldn't stop herself from crossing her fingers that it would happen.

Diana and Caroline had only been gone for a couple of minutes when Ruth rolled over and pushed her aviator sunglasses up onto her head, looking exasperated. "We should follow them," she said.

"Yes, we should," Beatrice reluctantly answered. "Maybe Flynn won't be as hard on us if he knows we tried to talk them out of it."

Ruth nodded in agreement and got to her feet. Beatrice folded up Bucky's letter and hid it under her pillow before grabbing her own pair of sunglasses and following Ruth out of the tent.

They had arrived in Belgium the week before, but the nurses were so busy that there was no time to explore the area. Not that there was much to explore this time; they had to keep a low profile since they were so close to occupied Brussels, and there were no lakes or forests around to admire when they did have time off. The only landmark within several miles was a French château, built in the sixteenth century for a baron and his wife. Beatrice had only seen it from a distance, but the distant towers reaching up into the sky was a grand sight—certainly not something one would ever find in New York.

"Is that them up there?" Ruth asked after a moment, pointing at two heads bobbing up and down amongst the tall grass. On the hill beyond, the castle's silhouette rose up starkly against the bare landscape.

Beatrice shielded her eyes with her hands, squinting past the bright sun. "I think so," she said. "We'll never catch up to them in time."

The two girls paused and stared at each other, looking from the canvas tents of the field hospital some five hundred yards away to the elegant castle in the distance. "Flynn is going to kill us," Ruth remarked.

"Yes, he is," sighed Beatrice. "But he can't blame us for trying to stop them." Although she was naturally cautious, she couldn't help but be a bit curious too. So many of her days during the past year had been monotonous and routine; she had to admit that the idea of discovering something new and interesting was enticing.

Caroline and Diana had already disappeared by the time Beatrice and Ruth reached the front doors, which were twenty feet tall and carved in a rich mahogany that must have once been magnificent to behold. The castle wasn't quite a ruin yet, but it was overgrown with ivy and weeds and many of the bricks were missing or crumbling. There were several birds' nests in the upper towers and the whole place held an unmistakable air of abandonment.

Ruth was the first to try the doors; the handles didn't so much as budge. She threw her back into it and angled her shoulders so that she was pushing her entire weight into the door, but it still didn't even creak. "How did they get inside?" she groaned, wiping her forehead and glaring at the offending lock. "Maybe they just walked around the grounds."

Out of some strange sense of curiosity, even though she knew she didn't weigh much more than Ruth, Beatrice tried the door too. This time she took a running start, throwing herself against the door and twisting the knob, pushing it as hard as she could. The doors immediately swung inward, halting her momentum so quickly that she lost her balance and fell down, landing on her hands and knees.

"I thought you said it was completely stuck," Beatrice accused, pushing herself back up to her feet and holding the door open for her friend, who was staring at her in awe.

"It was!" Ruth argued. "I couldn't move it an inch. Maybe I loosened something?"

"Maybe," Beatrice said doubtfully. She didn't like the way Ruth was looking at her, as if she'd cheated somehow. The door hadn't been particularly reinforced. Maybe Ruth hadn't used her full strength.

Frowning, and determined to push the strange occurrence out of her mind, Beatrice turned into the foyer. The entryway was so large it could easily fit a hundred people, the floors made of marble and granite. A spiral staircase curved upward in front of them, and the walls were lined with ancient portraits, the paint flaking off on most of them. They all appeared to be of old men with dark eyes and disdainful expressions; Beatrice assumed they were the baron's ancestors. She took a step closer to the last one, whose date of birth was only forty years beforehand. "Heinrich Zemo," she read aloud. "And the painting looks fairly new. I guess someone must come here from time to time."

"How did you read that?" Ruth exclaimed. "I can barely see. It's too dark in here."

Beatrice could see perfectly fine; pushing down the unease that threatened to unfurl in her stomach, she reached into her pocket for a flashlight and handed it to Ruth. "Stay behind me," she instructed; the other girl seemed all too happy to oblige.

"Caroline? Diana?" Ruth called. Her voice echoed off the walls, sending the words back at them. There was no reply.

Beatrice slowly made her way around the ground floor; dust puffed up with every step she took. The illumination from Ruth's flashlight cast eerie shadows on the walls; more than once a rat scurried right in front of them, nearly running over their feet. Ruth gave a small shriek every time it happened.

On the east side of the castle was the dining-room, with a kitchen just beyond it. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, but the rooms were fully furnished, often ornately and lavishly decorated. It was as if the inhabitants had simply vanished one day, leaving no trace of their presence behind. On the opposite end of the foyer was a sitting-room and then a large, empty hall which Beatrice assumed had once been a ballroom. In every room there was a portrait of one of the Zemos. Although they all looked slightly different, each wore the same expression. Beatrice had a sense, ridiculous though it was, that they were watching her, and somehow that unnerved her more than anything else. In fact, the whole castle unnerved her. She wanted to run back to the camp as fast as she could, even if it meant getting in trouble, but she also wanted to find the others and besides, this was the most excitement she'd had in months. Adrenaline raced through her veins and her pulse quickened not unlike the way it did when she was with Bucky.

After they'd circled around the ground floor with no luck, they paused at the base of the main staircase. "I don't think they've been in here," Beatrice said. "The dust hasn't been disturbed for a long time." She glanced around the foyer, taking in the weak sunlight shining through the crack in the closed front doors and the disapproving gazes of the ten Zemos staring down at them. "They're probably back at the camp waiting for us. Hang on…" Beatrice trailed off, her mouth suddenly going dry. "We left those doors open, didn't we?"

Ruth nodded, the flashlight slipping from her grasp; it went clattering across the floor before rolling to a stop along the wall, where it flickered dimly once before going out completely. "I'm scared," she whispered, pressing closer to Beatrice.

"So am I," Beatrice muttered. Her heart was hammering, and she no longer felt curiously interested: this was something more akin to fear.

No sooner had she put her foot on the first step of the staircase than she heard Diana's voice. "We're up here!" she shouted. Beatrice looked up and saw her hanging over the banister on the second level. The staircase continued to spiral upwards; Beatrice counted at least five more floors above them. At the very top, she could see a skylight with most of the glass missing. Beatrice wondered how many years of rain and snow had blown in and rotted away the foundation.

Ruth was already hurrying past her up the stairs to Diana; Beatrice took one more wary look at the front doors before following her.

The balcony on the second level wrapped around the entire floor; many of the doors leading into the rooms were hanging off their hinges or missing entirely. Caroline and Diana were sharing a cigarette and laughing. They both looked amused to see Ruth and Beatrice so unsettled.

"I don't like this place," Ruth said at once. "There's something strange about it."

Diana laughed and took a drag from the cigarette before handing it back to Caroline. "Don't be such a scaredy-cat," she teased, ruffling Ruth's hair. "I'm surprised it took you so long to find us."

"How did you get inside?" Beatrice interrupted. "Through the front doors?"

Caroline raised her eyebrows. "Are you kidding? Those things didn't move even when we tried to open them together. There's a servants' entrance at the side of the house that was unlocked. Why?" she asked. "How did  _you_ get in?"

Beatrice ignored her question. "So you didn't close those doors, then?"

Caroline shook her head. "No. We've been here the whole time."

"Then there's someone else here," Beatrice said. She drew back from the railing and felt a stab of annoyance at their skeptical expressions. "Look, those doors didn't close by themselves."

"Or maybe it was, you know, ghosts," Diana mocked, flicking the spent cigarette over the banister and walking over to the nearest door. "Do you want me to check for monsters?" She made a show of opening the door and peering inside—Beatrice could see the outline of a four-poster bed—before turning back to them, grinning. "See? There's nothing—"

She didn't scream, but her eyes widened in shock. Before anyone could ask her what had happened, a torrent of blood poured from her mouth, running down her chin and staining the front of her white uniform.

Diana seemed to fall in slow motion, as if time had slowed down just for that moment. She hit the ground with a sickening finality, a laugh still frozen on her face. Sticking out of her back, between her shoulder blades, was the handle of a silver knife.

There was a dull roaring in Beatrice's ears. Her mind kept blanking like a scratched record, trying to invent any other explanation for what she'd seen. Around her, Caroline and Ruth appeared to be in a similar state of shock—although only seconds passed before the spell was broken and they went rushing toward her. Caroline was barking orders and Ruth was trying to resuscitate her, but they had seen enough soldiers die to know that Diana had met the same fate. Her eyes were glassy, her pulse absent as the pool of blood surrounding her grew ever wider. Beatrice was stricken with shock and horror, so numb that it took her a long moment to remember that the knife had to have come from somewhere.

Something grabbed her around the throat and cut off her air supply so quickly that it took her brain unusually long to process what had happened. Beatrice staggered backwards, clawing at the arm that was hooked around her neck in a death grip. She was being held tight against someone's side; gasping, her muddled mind dimly connected the ashen-haired man who had her locked in a vice grip with that of the last portrait downstairs. Heinrich Zemo.

"Imagine my surprise when I received word that Captain America and his Howling Commandos would be waiting for me at my ancestral home and I found four women instead," Zemo said in a thick German accent. "Not only that, one of them was a prisoner of the Red Skull's. He shall be pleased when I deliver you back to him."

Caroline hurled the bloody knife at him; he moved to avoid it and his grip loosened slightly on Beatrice. She immediately took advantage, twisting out of his arms and leaping for the knife, but Zemo was closer: he grabbed it and this time Beatrice rolled away, pushing herself as far away as she could from him. She slammed into the railing, the bars giving away under her weight, and she went flying over the balcony. She dimly heard Ruth scream as she fell through the air, tumbling upside down, the skylight and floor whirring into one continuous blur—

She smashed into the floor below hard enough to take her breath away, curling up and waiting for the pain—pain that never came. She was lying on her back on the ground floor, pieces of the railing littered around her, but she only felt slightly dazed. It was probably the adrenaline kicking in and it would paralyze her soon. Beatrice slowly sat up.  _I should at least have a concussion,_ she thought hazily, but her vision wasn't blurred and her head didn't hurt. She had to have fallen at least fifty feet.

"The doctor's serum did work on you, I see," Zemo gloated, and Beatrice shakily pushed herself to her feet as she saw him slowly descending the stairs, the knife in his hand pointed at her. "But you are sloppy. It will take you months to learn to fight properly."

"What are you talking about?" Beatrice asked; she was concentrating on the nearest doors and windows, searching for possible escape routes.

Zemo stopped short, a smirk on his face. "Have you not found yourself holding back? You are stronger than most now, Fräulein. The serum has changed you; surely you have felt it."

"Changed me into what?"

His wide smirk turned into a vindictive laugh. Beatrice hoped that Caroline and Ruth had found some way out of the castle without her. "The Americans had Erskine. Did you not think us Germans were working on our own version of the super soldier serum? I did not imagine they would use it on a woman, though. What use would one be?"

Beatrice almost forgot she was supposed to be trying to escape, she was so focused on his words. "I'm some sort of super soldier?" she asked dumbly. "Like St—like Captain America?"

The sound of a shot reverberated through the entryway, and Zemo collapsed to the ground, the knife falling from his hands. Now Beatrice leapt on it, grabbing the hilt just as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind. She brandished it wildly, aiming to dig it into the next intruder as hard as she could, but Bucky's voice in her ears made her stop. "It's just me, Rosie," he was saying. Beatrice stopped dead, and he had to pry it out of her frozen grip and toss it aside himself.

"Bucky?" she gasped.

"Yeah," he said. "Zemo is a high-ranking member of Hydra. We were told he'd be in the area today, but—we were too late." He carefully placed his rifle on the floor, and Beatrice realized that he'd been the one who had shot Zemo.

"Diana's dead," she gulped, burying her face in his shoulder. "Zemo killed her."

"I know. Steve's up with the others now." Bucky was stroking her hair as if she had simply woken up from a nightmare and this wasn't their first reunion in four months. His hands were careful and hesitant on her.

"Did you hear what he was saying?" Beatrice hiccupped, drawing back to stare up at him. "What Zola did to us?"

Bucky nodded grimly. "I knew he did something to me, Rosie, but now that I know he's done it to  _you_ …" His eyes hardened as he stared down at her, something like determination in his eyes.

Beatrice tried hard to keep her voice from wavering. "I would have been dead by now if I didn't have it," she said. "I just—" But before she could answer, she heard footsteps running down the stairs and Steve, dressed in his colorful Captain America uniform with his vibranium shield at his back, had joined them. He knelt down in front of Beatrice, and Bucky let go of her but still kept one hand protectively on her back.

"Beatrice!" he exclaimed. "Are you all right? Nurse MacGregor said you had a pretty bad fall."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Beatrice said. She shot a quick glance toward Bucky, silently asking him if Steve knew. Bucky gave a small shake of his head and she felt a mild surprise; why hadn't Bucky told Steve, his best friend, what had happened to him? But that was none of her business. She inhaled shakily and said, "We need to take Diana's body back. I'll—I'll explain what happened."

"It's already being done," Steve replied. "Dugan and Falsworth just left. The others are searching the manor for more information on Zemo." He paused, his blue eyes wide and serious as he examined her for injuries. "What were you doing here, anyway?" he asked.

"Not now, Steve," Bucky tried to say, but Beatrice waved off his concern.

"Diana and Caroline wanted to explore this place," she explained. "Ruth and I went to stop them but it was too late. It's my fault—if I'd been faster—"

"It's not your fault," Steve said firmly; he and Bucky each took one of her arms and helped her to her feet, though Beatrice didn't need their assistance. "You were trying to stop her. It's no one's fault but Zemo's, Beatrice. I'll make sure Flynn knows that."

The weight of what had happened was beginning to sink in; Beatrice turned her head so they couldn't see the tears building in her eyes, and her gaze fell on the spot where she had landed.

The floor was dented, the marble tiles cracked, as if it had been a boulder that had fallen there instead.


	25. XXV

**London, England**

Snow swirled against the windowpanes as Beatrice pushed open the door to the barracks, her arms laden with supplies. She dumped them unceremoniously on the floor as Caroline and Ruth pushed past her, each vying for the best spot. The beds were stripped of linen, the mattresses the only things on their frames.

"Are we the only ones here over Christmas?" Caroline asked as she pulled aside the blackout curtains and scrubbed at a spot of grime on the glass.

"Yes," Beatrice replied, echoing what Colonel Phillips had told her when they'd gotten off the airplane after landing in London. "Us, Agent Carter, and Private Lorraine."

"I haven't seen them yet," Ruth remarked, taking the bed next to Caroline's. "So I guess this means we have first pick here."

Caroline snorted. "Good thing, too," she said darkly. "Carter doesn't have a funny bone in her body, and Lorraine is too stuck-up to be any interesting. We need someone exciting to liven things up a bit."

"You mean someone like Diana," Beatrice said. Instantly the atmosphere turned tense; none of them had mentioned her for weeks.

Since Diana's death, there had been a tangible shift in the relationship between the three other nurses. They were more professional and less familiar with each other, withdrawing into themselves through their grief. Diana had been such an integral part of their group—the unspoken leader—that to lose her was to irrevocably alter the group's dynamics. Each of them blamed themselves for what had happened to her, but perhaps Caroline took it the hardest; she believed that if she hadn't encouraged Diana to go up to Castle Zemo, Diana wouldn't have done it alone.

After they had returned to the camp and explained to Flynn what they'd seen—Bucky and Steve refusing to leave Beatrice's side, a gesture she'd never properly appreciated nor thanked them for at the time—Colonel Phillips had been called in and they'd been forced to explain their story again.

Beatrice had expected Phillips to be absolutely livid, and she wasn't disappointed: he'd come close to ordering them to leave the SSR on the spot, but Steve had interrupted him, explaining that the Howling Commandos should have intervened sooner and that Beatrice and Ruth had been trying to convince Diana to leave. This was backed up by Caroline, who admitted it was entirely her fault. Phillips had softened somewhat after that, but he'd ordered Flynn to keep them all under close supervision from then on.

True to his word, Flynn had watched them like a hawk during the following weeks, and not even Caroline had dared to put a toe out of line. Beatrice and Ruth, the two most likely to comply with the rules, were nonetheless watched just as closely. They were all careful to save the conversations they wanted to remain private until they were sure they weren't being watched; like now, for instance. Beatrice would have never dared to say Diana's name aloud if she'd thought that Flynn was in earshot.

Caroline and Beatrice stared at each other for a long, terse moment. Ruth looked to be holding her breath. Beatrice could tell that Caroline was debating whether to argue the point or just let it slide. And then, suddenly, the other girl sighed, her shoulders deflating and all the air going out of her. "You're right," Caroline said hollowly. "I would give anything to have Diana here. Anything."

"It's been sixteen weeks," Ruth said in a low voice.

"And I still miss her just as much as I did sixteen hours after she died." Caroline crossed her arms defensively, daring either of them to retort. "Look, things haven't been the same since August, and we all know it. That's why I gave my letter of resignation to Phillips today."

Beatrice felt a jolt of surprise. "Letter of resignation?" she echoed. "You're—you're leaving?"

Caroline nodded. "I've been thinking about it for months," she explained. "I finally made my decision yesterday. Phillips approved my request and I'm going back to Detroit the day after Christmas. I'll be happier there," she added in response to Beatrice's and Ruth's startled looks. "Fixing up the house and waiting for Robert to come home. The war'll be over soon enough, anyway. The Allies are taking back Europe. I guarantee by this time next year we'll all be home again."

"D-Day was six months ago," Beatrice pointed out. "What changes have you seen since then?"

Caroline tossed her head, suddenly looking more like Diana than ever. "But it still happened, didn't it? Anyway, it's too late. Nothing is going to change my mind." Her expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell either of you until now. It's just…I can't do this anymore. I can't be reminded every day that I'm the reason Diana is dead."

"Caroline…" Beatrice began, and faltered. What could she possibly say? She didn't want her fellow nurse and, most importantly, friend to leave, but what good would it do to protest? Like Caroline herself had said, her mind was already made up.

Ruth was fidgeting, staring down at her hands and her mouth working furiously as if she was warring with herself to speak. "I have something to tell you, too," she burst out, and both Beatrice and Caroline turned to her. "I…I'm expecting."

This was even more of a shock than Caroline's declaration had been; it took Beatrice a moment to comprehend her words. _"Expecting?"_  she and Caroline exclaimed simultaneously. "Since when?"

"Since…since August," Ruth confessed, unable to meet their gazes. "Nicholas and I snuck out one night after, well, after Diana's funeral." She stared down at her hands, which were trembling in her lap. "I only found out last week. I haven't had a chance to tell him yet."

Now that she thought about it, Beatrice could remember that Ruth had seemed more tired and withdrawn during autumn, often ill and unable to work long shifts, but she had chalked it up as stress. Some nurse she was. "What are you going to do?" she asked carefully once she had recovered from the shock.

Ruth finally looked up at them, her eyes shining. "I've always wanted to be a mother," she said slowly. "And if Caroline is right and the war really is ending, it's perfect timing. Nicholas is going to want to marry me when he finds out, and, well, it does give me an opportunity to go back home early. I'll probably be sent back to Boston in January or February." She gave a tiny shrug. "I'm sorry, Beatrice."

It took Beatrice a moment to realize why she was apologizing: with both Caroline and Ruth leaving the SSR, she would be alone, likely transferred to another unit. Several nurses had become pregnant during the past year, though Beatrice hadn't known any of them well. All of them had been sent home once they were far enough along for it to interfere with their work. "It's fine, Ruth," she said, smiling kindly at her. "Congratulations."

It was suddenly clear that Ruth had gained weight, though she'd managed to hide most of it by adjusting the belt on her uniform. Her friend looked relieved, as if she'd expected a harsher reaction. "You're not angry at me?" she asked. "Either of you?"

"Why would we be angry?" Caroline said. "It's your decision."

Ruth frowned. "So you think I should tell Colonel Phillips?"

"The sooner, the better," Caroline replied, and Beatrice nodded in agreement. "Let's go now, then."

"Now?" Ruth squeaked, looking terrified.

"Now's as good a time as any," said Caroline. She walked over to Ruth's bed and pulled her up. "I'll go with you for moral support. Are you coming too, Beatrice?"

Beatrice hesitated before shaking her head. "I have to unpack all of this stuff," she said, gesturing to the pile of supplies on the floor. "I'll see you at supper."

"Sure," Caroline said, and led a nervous Ruth outside, telling her that the story was one Phillips had likely heard many times before.

When they were gone, Beatrice sat back on her heels, staring blankly down at the mess on the floor. She needed time to process the realization that both of her closest friends left at the field hospital were leaving. She would be lying if she said that she hadn't thought about leaving herself, but to go back to Brooklyn now would feel like a cowardice, like she was only temporarily running away from the real problem that she would have to face sooner or later.

It had been over a year—thirteen months, to be exact—since she had been the subject of Zola's experiments. Beatrice had had a lot of time to think about the consequences it had brought her, some more apparent than others. Lying awake at night, when it hurt too much to think of Bucky, she would analyze and re-analyze all of the changes she'd noticed in herself and compare it to everything she knew about the super-soldier serum, from what Howard and Zemo had told her to what she'd witnessed firsthand in Steve.

Primarily, there were changes that only Beatrice herself could notice—heightened senses being the most obvious example. From the moment she'd opened her eyes after being strapped down onto Zola's table, her vision had sharpened noticeably, even though she had never had any problems with her sight before. She could read the fine print on a patient's chart with no difficulties from the opposite side of the bed, startling many G.I.'s who thought she hadn't yet examined them. Her hearing had also magnified to a point she hadn't previously believed possible, so much so that she was often able to hear heartbeats without a stethoscope. This unnerved Beatrice more than she cared to admit, and so she continued to use one, even if it was just to keep up appearances.

Likewise, she had been startled the first time she'd realized that she could detect abnormalities in the blood just by a sense of smell, but she pretended she had gotten the results from blood tests instead. It wasn't refined enough that she could detect individual chemicals, but there had been times when she'd tasted copper in the air and knew which soldiers had bullets and shrapnel lodged in their bodies just by the smell. She was able to lift heavy objects without tiring, and she often found herself having to slow down her pace to keep up with the others. She didn't get much chance to use them in her day-to-day life, though. Like Zemo had said, she knew she wasn't using them to the best of her abilities. She was scared of them—scared of what she had become. And she was pretending as if they weren't there, as if she hadn't changed at all.

But it didn't come without its downsides: the improved sense of taste made food that much more unbearable, and Beatrice often found herself having to choke down her K-rations with a glass of water.

The biggest upside, however, had been touch. The rare times she'd gotten to kiss Bucky had been better than she'd ever imagined, and she imagined everything else would be the same, too, but she had always reined herself in before those thoughts could get too out of hand.

Her mind was also sharper: she found that she had better memory recall and made inferences quicker, which was useful when diagnosing a patient or remembering their chart. She assumed that Erskine's serum had done much the same to Steve—but at the same time she was  _different._ While she assumed they had been given similar serums, they hadn't been exact duplicates of each other.

For one thing, her physical appearance hadn't changed at all. She was still short and on the smaller side, whereas Steve had grown a foot and more muscle than was probably physically possible. As far as she knew, Bucky hadn't grown taller either, although she had definitely noticed the amount of muscle he'd put on in the past year that wasn't just from carrying around rifles and roughing it on the front lines.

Beatrice had never let on to anyone the extent of how she changed, although Ruth definitely suspected something and oftentimes she thought that Phillips did too. Maybe there was an ulterior motive for him wanting Flynn to watch her closely. Had the others noticed anything different about Bucky?

And that brought her back to him. Beatrice had known, of course, that his position as Captain America's right-hand man, one of the Howling Commandos, would mean that she would get to see him very rarely, if ever. Her work as a nurse, too, meant that she was constantly traveling and it was difficult to stay in one place to see him even if he happened to be nearby. But she still would have been disappointed and surprised even if she'd known from the very beginning that she would only get to see Bucky twice in the span of an entire year.

It was nearly the end of 1944, and she had only gotten to see her fiancé twice, and only then for the space of an afternoon. They had been discovered by Steve back in April when they'd gotten a moment to steal off by themselves, and when she'd next seen him after Diana's death she had been too distraught for them to have a proper reunion. The Commandos had only spent a few hours at the field hospital then; Beatrice had spent most of it sobbing into Bucky's shirt. She had later apologized profusely, and he hadn't seemed to mind, but she still felt badly about her terrible reception.

She still wondered if she had dreamt their entire engagement—their time trapped by Hydra and their subsequent conversation at the Whip & Fiddle—but now that seemed so far away from where she was right now.  _He_ seemed so far away from her.

That wasn't to say they hadn't had any communication whatsoever: they'd kept up a steady stream of letters back and forth—Bucky occasionally describing a dream he'd had about their reunion that made even her blush—but words on paper just weren't the same as his physical presence. Nevertheless, Beatrice felt that she would have gone insane without some sort of thread tying her to him, no matter how thin.

The first month of separation had been the worst: she'd barely been able to eat or sleep, longing for him so much that it hurt. She would reread his letters over and over again until she was able to recite them to herself at night, staring up at the shadows dancing on the roof of the tent.

This hadn't gone unnoticed by the others, though: they'd finally staged an intervention, telling Beatrice that she was making herself unnecessarily miserable and wallowing in self-pity wouldn't bring Bucky back any sooner. Caroline had been the most helpful of the three: she knew what Beatrice was feeling, having gone through the same thing herself when her own fiancé, Robert, had been shipped out. She was a great comfort but also knew when Beatrice needed to be brought back to reality. "It'll stop hurting as much," she told her. "You won't stop missing him, but it will become more bearable."

Beatrice hadn't believed her at first, but time eventually proved the truth of Caroline's words. She could go nearly a day without thinking of Bucky, and when he did cross her thoughts she didn't feel like spending the rest of the day pining over him. It hadn't become easy, but it had become, as Caroline said, bearable. In fact, she almost felt guilty when she'd seen him, like the fact that she hadn't turned into a complete mess when he was gone meant that she was falling out of love. But every time he left again, the pain would return, sharper than ever, until Beatrice was able to pull herself back together. In this manner not seeing him saved her pain; at least not seeing him meant that he wasn't always leaving.

She knew there was a very real possibility that they would be reunited over Christmas, but she had never allowed herself to dwell on it for too long in case she was disappointed. Instead she had focused on the break that she would get from work—talking to the G.I.'s without having to examine them for life-threatening injuries would be a refreshing change.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside, and Beatrice was abruptly jolted out of her thoughts, realizing that she hadn't made any progress whatsoever cleaning up the supplies.

But it wasn't Caroline and Ruth who came through the door—it was Peggy Carter and Private Lorraine, both dressed in their SSR uniforms and looking as if they had just returned from a meeting. Peggy carried a leather briefcase as her only piece of luggage, while Lorraine carried nothing at all, as if she planned to spend the entire holiday wearing the same outfit. Both of them regarded Beatrice with rather perplexed expressions.

"Afternoon, Beatrice," Lorraine said first, a tiny smirk on her face. "I would have thought you'd be at the pub with the rest of them."

"The rest of who?" Beatrice asked.

Peggy knelt down and began to sweep the mess into a neat pile, achieving more in thirty seconds than what Beatrice could probably do in thirty minutes, enhanced serum or not. "The Howling Commandos have just arrived in London," she explained. "They were able to fly in from Germany."

Beatrice wasn't certain she had heard Peggy correctly; she just stared blankly at her, unable to let herself get her hopes up, until the ghost of a smile crossed the other woman's face. "Sergeant Barnes is indeed with them," she said, as if she had read Beatrice's thoughts.

The mention of Bucky was enough to get Beatrice to scramble to her feet and make for the door; as it swung shut behind her, she dimly heard Lorraine remark, "She's faster than I would have thought."

Beatrice pounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time, unable to believe it—this couldn't be happening, not after months and months of separation—

She crashed headfirst into someone standing just outside the front door, sending them stumbling backwards. As she gasped in surprise and apologized, she saw a familiar blond head and a bright grin as Steve grabbed her shoulders to steady her, his eyes warm and welcoming. "Gee, Beatrice, usually it's me knocking people over." He looked bemused, but thankfully not suspicious.

Beatrice gave a choked laugh, her head spinning madly. She had missed Steve too, of course—impossibly so—but now she felt something else fall into place, as if she had lost a part of herself without even knowing that it was missing. "I think you mean recently," she said. Steve laughed, too, but there was a solemnness in his eyes she had never seen before. The war hadn't only changed him physically.

"I didn't know you were here yet, or we would have come to see you," he told her. "Bucky's in the pub with the others."

Beatrice forced herself not to go tearing off again in the direction of the Whip & Fiddle. "So who are you looking for, then?" she asked, half-teasing, half-curious.

A light flush appeared on his face. "Peggy—Agent Carter," he quickly corrected himself. "Colonel Phillips wanted me to find her, but I'm not allowed in the women's barracks." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

"It's only her and Private Lorraine in there," Beatrice replied. "I'm sure she won't mind. Actually—she probably will, come to think of it. Ignore what I just said."

Oddly enough, Steve turned even redder at the mention of the secretary.  _"Lorraine?_  I, uh, think I'll just wait out here," he said in a strangled tone.

Deciding she didn't want to know whatever incident was behind his unusual behavior, Beatrice shrugged and began to head across the street. The snow had lightened up considerably, but the road and rooftops were covered with a light powder. It was below freezing, but she barely felt the cold. "Suit yourself," she said.

"Beatrice?" Steve called when she was halfway across. There were no cars in sight, so Beatrice stopped and turned around to face him. "Bucky'll punch me for saying this, but he's really missed you. More than you probably realize." Steve paused, looking thoughtful. "So have I."

Beatrice felt a rush of affection for him—for both of them. She was suddenly taken back to Brooklyn, two years ago, on a snowy day not unlike this one. How much had changed since then. "I've missed you too, Steve," she said; even from her distance, she could see his genuine smile.

* * *

The Whip & Fiddle wasn't nearly as crowded as when she'd first visited it. Many of the tables were empty, and it wasn't filled with a haze of smoke. Soft jazz music played from a gramophone in the corner, and the pub was filled with the clinking of cutlery and quiet laughter. A roaring fire crackled in the corner, sending sparks flying up and illuminating the darkness. She could already feel its warmth as she untied her headscarf and shook out her snow-covered hair.

"Beatrice!"

She barely had time to turn around before she was enveloped in a bear hug by Timothy Dugan, who was as broad and jovial as ever. "It's good to see you too, Dugan," Beatrice said as they embraced; she'd never gotten into the habit of calling him Dum-Dum like the others.

"You got here okay, I guess," Gabe Jones said with a wide grin, coming up from behind Dugan. He flashed a bright smile at her. Across the pub, Falsworth, Morita and Dernier raised their drinks to her; all of them had what she imagined were knowing smirks on their faces. She guessed that she had often been the topic of conversation among the Commandos when they wanted to tease Bucky.

Beatrice nodded and turned back to Gabe, hoping her amused glare was visible to the others. "We thought we'd have to wait for a ship leaving from Amsterdam, but Stark sent one of his planes to us just in time. Steve said you were in Germany?"

"Yeah," Gabe replied. "We got caught in an air raid coming out of Berlin, but we made it through." He shared a loaded glance with Dugan, and Beatrice knew he was withholding something else. "If you're looking for him, Barnes is over there."

She followed his gaze over to a small table next to the fire, where two figures looked to be deep in conversation. "Thanks, Gabe," Beatrice said, pretending she hadn't noticed the look he and Dugan exchanged, before heading in the direction he'd indicated.

Bucky was sitting at a table across from—surprisingly—Howard Stark, his back to Beatrice. He wore a dark blue field jacket emblazoned with the logo of the SSR and his hair was slicked back, as if he had put extra effort into it that morning. Beatrice found that her feet were frozen to the spot and she was holding her breath, somehow afraid that when he turned around it wouldn't be Bucky, but someone else entirely.

Howard saw her first; he grinned, pausing whatever conversation they were having—what did he and Bucky have in common, anyway? Beatrice didn't think she had ever seen them interact before—and he muttered something that sounded like "Perfect timing." He winked at Beatrice, stood up, and went over to the bar, but Beatrice didn't watch him leave, for Bucky had finally turned, and it was definitely him, and all her fears suddenly melted away.

She'd imagined this reunion countless times before she could manage to stop herself, but she had never precisely been able to envision the look on his face when he saw her. It was surprise and delight and tenderness, and it was a million times better than anything she could have created in her mind. The entire world seemed to shrink until it was just her and Bucky, and the dozen or so feet that separated them felt like miles. It had only been four months since they'd last seen each other, but Beatrice's heart stuttered and then took off again, her face growing as hot as if it had been years and she was unsure how to act around him.

And then, miraculously, her muscles unfroze and she could move again. Bucky had already gotten up and was striding toward her, with that same dazed look on his face, and Beatrice ran the last few steps to him, throwing herself into his embrace.

He crushed her to him, his arms so tight around her that even Beatrice was taken aback by it. She pressed her face into his neck, inhaling the scent of cigar smoke and sweat and cheap cologne. It wasn't alluring by any means, but at that moment it was the most heavenly thing she had ever smelled.

They stayed locked in a close embrace for at least thirty seconds—maybe more—neither of them loosening their grip. The other patrons, who had been amused by their antics at first, had now gone back to their own activities. Beatrice could have stayed in Bucky's arms forever, but her curiosity was winning out. She drew back from him slightly and cupped his face in her hands. His eyes were fixed steadily on her with a light that made her feel giddy. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, intending to pull away after a moment, but Bucky kept her there, deepening the kiss, his teeth grazing her bottom lip—

Beatrice pulled away, gasping, despite not being out of breath. "Bucky," she managed to say. "This is…a warm welcome."

"I could say the same to you, Rosie," he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. "Do you kiss every guy you say hello to like that?"

He led her over to the table, keeping her close against his side, and pushed the chair Howard had vacated to the opposite end so that they were sitting next to each other. Beatrice curled up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder, looking up at him and determined to memorize every feature of his face, every fleeting expression in his eyes. His arm curved around her waist, drawing her as close as she could possibly be to him on separate chairs. The dancing fire illuminated him, deep lines already setting into his face, making him look much older than twenty-seven.

"Peggy told me you'd be here," she said, a hint of disbelief still coloring her voice.

A quick grin flashed across Bucky's face. "Ah, well, Agent Carter knows everything," he replied. "At least Steve thinks so."

For some reason, Beatrice didn't want to think of Steve and Peggy, not now, not when she had Bucky right here and the promise of less painful topics. "How long are you staying?"

Now it was Bucky's turn for a shadow to fall across his face. "We don't know. Steve could receive intel at any moment and we'd all have to go with him. But I think the intention was to stay over Christmas."

Beatrice had never been sure if she believed in God or not—even less so after she'd come to Europe—but she sent up a fervent prayer that they wouldn't be called away all the same. She thought of her previous conversation with Gabe and Dugan, venturing to ask, "Did something happen on the way here? Gabe said you were nearly caught in an air raid."

Bucky's face darkened and she felt him tense against her. "Nearly," he muttered. "But not quite." He paused, but Beatrice could tell he wasn't finished speaking. He met her questioning gaze and looked away again, his jaw tightening as he stared into the fire. "We've been in a hundred air raids and nearly killed a dozen times. But this time I knew we were going back to London, and when I heard those sirens I was sure I wasn't going to make it. I—I panicked, Rosie."

Beatrice took a long time before she spoke, drawing light patterns on his hand, entwined with hers. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what Bucky's definition of  _panicking_ was. "Steve wouldn't have led you into that if he knew the stakes were too high."

"But that's the thing, doll. Steve  _doesn't_ know. He has to pretend he knows, sure, because he's Captain America." Bucky turned back to her, looking agitated. "I don't want to die—who does? But if I have to, I'd want to have said goodbye first."

"Bucky…" she began, the words almost caught in her throat. "It doesn't work like that. Nobody can ever know exactly when they're going to die, us even less than most."

He seemed to calm under her touch, his eyes briefly closing. "Yeah, you're right. But Steve suggested—"

Unfortunately, Beatrice would never get to find out what Steve suggested, for at that moment the front door swung open and a man she instantly recognized walked in, leading a small boy by the hand.

"Ivan!" she exclaimed in surprise and delight. She leapt to her feet, pulling Bucky behind her.

Her uncle's face was drawn and pale, worry lining his features, but it lifted somewhat at the sight of Beatrice. They hadn't seen each other since the previous Christmas. "Hello, Beatrice, Sergeant Barnes," he greeted them, smiling at Beatrice and nodding at Bucky, who kept a light but protective arm around her waist. "I hoped I would find you here."

The boy at his side, who couldn't have been more than two or three years old, tugged at Ivan's sleeve and said something in a language Beatrice didn't recognize but guessed to be Russian. Ivan replied with her name, and when Beatrice really looked at the little boy she couldn't stop a hand from flying to her mouth.  _"Henry,"_ she gasped, feeling almost faint.

The last time she had seen him, before he'd even left New York, he had been less than a year old. Now he was a toddler, nearly as tall as her waist, with the Romanov features of green eyes and red hair looking more like a child's than a baby's. The pictures Ivan sent her had illustrated his rapid growth, but they could not have prepared her for seeing him in person.

"Luisa is visiting her family in Italy," Ivan explained as Henry stared quizzically up at Beatrice. "We decided he would be safer with me for now."

The boy in question took a hesitant step forward, his eyes fixed on Beatrice's, and spoke to her directly; she wished she had paid more attention when Elena had tried to teach her Russian. She couldn't understand a word her brother was saying.

"English, Alian," Ivan reminded him gently.

"Alian?" Beatrice stuttered. The name was familiar—he had called Henry that once before, but she hadn't known it was to be his Russian name.

Her uncle looked almost apologetic. "It is the only name he recognizes. I do not want to arouse suspicion by calling him an American name, even in private, when he is not yet old enough to understand the dangers. As far as Stalingrad is concerned, he is the son of Luisa and I."

Beatrice had known this would happen; known that he would not grow up the way she had imagined and hoped he would, but it still hurt to see her brother looking at her with no recognition in his eyes and speaking a language she did not. Sensing her discomfort, Bucky's arm tightened around her.

"Are you my sister?" Henry asked, in English this time; he immediately looked up to Ivan for approval.

Beatrice knelt down so that she was at eye level with him and nodded. "Yes, I am," she said. "Your much older sister."

Henry stared at her for another moment, unblinking and intent in the way only small children could master, before he let go of Ivan's hand and tapped her wrist.  _"Vverkh,"_  he ordered.

Now it was Beatrice's turn to look at Ivan. "He wants to be carried," her uncle explained. "He's had a long day."

She cautiously reached out and picked him up in the same way she had done when he was an infant—only now he would be much heavier. At first Beatrice was surprised that he didn't feel as if he had grown at all, so easy it was for her to lift him, before she remembered that it was her who was stronger. Henry settled easily in her arms, shifting his focus to Bucky, who had been silent throughout the conversation. He felt both familiar and different in Beatrice's arms; she had to keep telling herself that this child was her baby brother, who was no longer a baby.

Ivan shrugged off his coat and hung it up on the rack before turning back to them. "I'm afraid I didn't come to London just for a friendly visit," he said in a low voice, nodding to their table and beginning to make his way over to it. Beatrice looked up at Bucky before following him; her fiancé's expression softened and he pressed his lips to her temple reassuringly. She heard Dugan give a low whistle and Bucky returned it with a rude gesture Beatrice hoped Henry couldn't see.

They sat down across from Ivan, Henry still in Beatrice's lap and his legs dangling over the side of the chair. The warmth of the fire appeared to be lulling him to sleep; his eyes were slowly drifting closed and his arms were going limp.

None of them spoke for several minutes—Ivan looked to be choosing his words carefully and Beatrice could feel the wary tension in every line of Bucky's body. She reached under the table with the arm that wasn't supporting Henry to put a hand on Bucky's knee. He gave a startled jerk and turned to look at her with wide, slightly accusatory eyes. She pretended not to notice that she was filling him with a very different kind of tension.

Ivan cleared his throat and Beatrice turned her attention back to him, curious to hear what he was so worried about. Of course, as soon as he began to speak, she wished he hadn't. "Surely you remember the Norn Stone I showed you during our last visit," he said.

"Yes," Beatrice answered slowly, remembering the images she had seen in it that she'd tried hard to push out of her mind and dismiss as a trick of some kind. Bucky raised a quizzical eyebrow; Beatrice gave a tiny squeeze of his knee that she hoped got the message across that she would explain it to him later.

"Well," Ivan said shortly, "It's gone missing."

Beatrice frowned, uncomprehending. "Missing? How? You've had it for years—"

"I don't know," Ivan admitted. "I had stepped out of my office here at headquarters to have lunch, and I always keep it inside my desk under lock and key. When I returned, it was simply gone, with no evidence that anyone had ever been inside."

She swallowed hard. "So you're saying that you can no longer tell where your enemies are?"

Ivan shook his head. "Hydra could be in this very pub and I wouldn't know."

The door opened again, startling Beatrice, but it was only Colonel Phillips followed by Steve, Peggy and Lorraine. He led them over to a long table in the corner where he unfurled a map and began to lecture them about whatever was labeled on it.

"It had to have been someone here," said Beatrice. "A Hydra spy in the SSR?" She suddenly felt very cold despite her close proximity to the fire.

Bucky answered before Ivan could. "Wait. You're saying that this…stone gives you the power to see your enemies?"

"It is an old Romanov family heirloom, gifted to my ancestors by Odin Allfather himself," Ivan said, looking proud.

If Bucky didn't understand a word of it, he didn't let on. "Then it would make sense that a spy would take it, so you wouldn't be able to know who they were."

This was a very good point; Beatrice could see Ivan considering it. "You are likely correct, Sergeant Barnes. There are very few people who are able to access my office, but I do not want to rule everyone out just yet."

"You're not suggesting that we're Hydra spies, are you?" Beatrice said with a weak smile, intending to add some levity.

"I'll die before I join Hydra," Bucky snarled, so vehemently that Henry stirred for a moment.

Ivan folded his hands on the tabletop, seeming unsurprised by Bucky's fierceness. "I know that it is neither of you—that is why I am confiding in you in the first place. What I am asking for is help in finding it."

"Finding it?" Beatrice repeated. "What could we possibly do to help?"

Ivan moved his scrutiny to her; she shifted under the weight of his gaze, so like her mother's. "I must admit that I was specifically thinking of you when I formulated this plan," he said. "I am certain that I know who the perpetrator is."

"Who?" Beatrice asked. "And why were you thinking of me? Why not Agent Carter or someone who is more experienced with the SSR?"

Her uncle's searching gaze didn't waver for an instant. "Because you are the only one who knows about the specifics of the stone. Agent Carter, while certainly able to get the job done, will arouse more suspicion than you. Her movements are being watched, whereas yours are not."

Beatrice didn't like the sound of that, but she couldn't deny that it also gave her a specific sort of thrill. "And what exactly do you want me to do?" she asked quietly, lifting her hand from Bucky's knee to clench it in a fist. "You sound as if you already know where it is."

"I believe I do," Ivan said. "I do not think it is in the hands of the Red Skull yet, but it shall be soon if we do not act now. The question is, Beatrice, do you wish to assist me in retrieving it?"

"I—I don't know," she said honestly. "I do want to help, but I'm just a nurse. I'm not qualified to be a spy or whatever it is you want me to be. Shouldn't you be talking to Colonel Phillips about this instead?"

"I already have," Ivan replied. "He approves of the idea if you agree. It will not place you in any danger, I assure you."

She glanced over at Bucky for help. His expression betrayed nothing, but she could tell that he didn't believe Ivan. Nothing that involved Hydra was ever guaranteed to be safe. "I'll help you, Uncle Ivan, on one condition," she finally said. "I just want to know why you're asking  _me."_

"Because you are a woman," Ivan said simply.

"Stark's coming over," Bucky muttered before Beatrice could question her uncle further, and the spell was suddenly broken.

Ivan leaned back in his chair and said, "Meet me here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

By the time Howard reached them, Ivan had already stood up to leave and Beatrice reluctantly handed a sleepy Henry back to him. She couldn't help but wonder why Ivan didn't even trust Howard to know of the whereabouts of the Norn Stone, unless its loss unsettled him more than he let on. She had a sense that her uncle was far more stressed than he appeared to be.

"Have you told her yet?" Howard asked Bucky, an easy smirk on his face as he greeted Ivan with a brief handshake before the red-haired man left with Henry.

"Tell me what?" Beatrice asked suspiciously.

Howard's infuriating smirk only grew wider. "Guess that's a no, then," he said. "I'll go see if the car's arrived yet." With that, he disappeared, leaving Beatrice wondering if he had even been there at all. Then again, if the papers were to be believed, he was quite adept at disappearing, especially in the mornings when women were involved.

When he was gone, she turned back to Bucky with raised eyebrows. "What's he talking about? Are we going somewhere?"

Bucky gave the hint of a grin and leaned over to kiss her forehead. "It's a surprise."

"Don't tell me you've planned something with him," Beatrice accused, although judging by their earlier conversation she had interrupted, that was exactly what they had been doing.

"I think you'll like this one, doll," Bucky said. Now that nobody was paying attention to them, she reached over to give him a kiss, wanting to touch him as much as possible while she had the chance, while he was still here.

"Will I?" she asked, unable to stop herself from grinning slyly as he grasped hold of her elbows and pulled her closer, his nose skimming down the edge of her jaw. She shivered and in retaliation grazed his earlobe with her teeth, sucking on it gently as she pulled away. She'd discovered that one completely by accident, and hoped it would have the same effect on him as it had the first time.

She wasn't disappointed; Bucky shuddered and she felt his sharp intake of breath. "Are you gonna drive me crazy right here?" he murmured. "Is that what you want, Rosie? I've already embarrassed myself enough in front of these guys—"

But Beatrice suddenly drew back onto her own chair, having spotted Steve approaching over Bucky's shoulder.

"You all right, Buck?" Steve asked, seeming concerned when he caught sight of Bucky's pained expression.

"Yeah," Bucky said, and crossed his legs. Beatrice fought very hard to look innocent. She had tried to relax him, but it looked to have done the exact opposite.

"You found Peggy, then," she said to Steve, trying to draw his attention away from Bucky.

He looked to her and gave a slightly relieved, slightly sheepish smile. "Yes. She told me that there are surveillance cameras placed outside the barracks so that unauthorized people can't get in. Even if she hadn't minded me being there, Phillips would have seen it."

"Monitoring everyone who goes in and out," Beatrice finished. She wasn't surprised by the idea, as she assumed the SSR would want to take any and all precautious, but something Ivan had told her suddenly clicked into place.

There was a whistle from the other side of the pub and all three of them turned to see Howard standing at the front door, beckoning her and Bucky over.

"There's our ride," Bucky said, and he stood up, still holding Beatrice's hand. She didn't think they had stopped touching at all since they had reunited. Steve's gaze moved from their intertwined hands to Howard, a furrowed frown on his face.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Beatrice said truthfully. "No one is telling me anything."

"I'm taking her somewhere nice," replied Bucky. "Don't wait up for me, pal." He patted Steve on the shoulder as they passed him; Beatrice could feel the blond man watching them all the way outside.

* * *

It had darkened considerably since she'd arrived at the Whip & Fiddle; the sky was now peppered with stars and the lights from the pub spilled outside onto the dark street. It was almost curfew, and Beatrice crossed her fingers there wouldn't be an air raid that night. It was also colder than it had been earlier—the bone-chilling temperature was beginning to affect her, her breath visible in the frosty air.

A cream-colored Cadillac limousine was idling on the road in front of them; Howard was standing by the driver's side conversing with someone. Beatrice saw him slip a stack of bills through the window, and a moment later the door opened and the previous driver climbed out before walking into the pub looking slightly taken aback as he counted the money, paying no attention to Beatrice and Bucky.

"Well, don't just stand there," Howard called to them, swinging into the driver's seat.

Beatrice and Bucky shared a look before he ushered her into the limousine; it was obviously new and very spacious, smelling like leather and cigars. The backseat had enough room for at least four people to sit side-by-side comfortably, but Bucky drew her onto his lap and she settled into his arms as Howard pulled away from the curb with a jolt that sent them reeling backwards.

"Why did you pay off the driver?" Beatrice asked him curiously; she could see Howard's answering grin in the reflection of the glass.

"You can't always give them a story to sell to the papers," Howard said ambiguously. His eyebrows raised when he saw the position they were in. "Are you two going to make it there? Not that I'm not against this kind of behavior, but this isn't my car and—"

"I think we'll make it, Howard," Beatrice said dryly. She looked at Bucky with the dim light washing over his profile and saw that he was staring out the window, an unreadable expression on his face. There was a tightness to his jaw she had somehow never noticed before, and Beatrice felt a sudden surge of frustrated hopelessness. She wanted to go back to when they were both carefree and happy in Brooklyn. She wanted Bucky's easy grin again, this time not mixed with something hard and bitter. She wanted to climb up the rose trellis into his bedroom and for him to pull her inside and kiss her until she couldn't see straight. She wanted too much; she wanted everything.

Blinking back the tears that threatened to gather in her eyes, she tried to figure out exactly where they were, but she didn't know anything about London aside from a two-block radius around the SSR headquarters. She could tell, however, that the lights were getting brighter and more cars were flashing past them. They must be going deeper into the heart of the city.

Howard apparently missed a turn, since he let out a string of expletives that Beatrice had to admit were quite creative, and swung the car around so that the tires squealed on the pavement. She clutched on to Bucky's shoulders to stop her head from smacking onto the window; he braced his back against the seat so they wouldn't go flying.

The limousine finally screeched to a stop in front of a blinding array of lights. Beatrice blinked past the brightness to see that they'd stopped at the entrance to a tall white building with elegant gold lettering painted above the doors. "The Dorchester Hotel," she read. "Why—why are we here?"

"To admire the architecture," Howard said sarcastically. "Why do you think?"

"We're…staying here?" Bucky was smirking as he watched her try to puzzle it out. "But…this is one of the most expensive hotels in the entire world!"

"Just for tonight," he said, squeezing her hand.

"Okay, what did you do for him?" Beatrice demanded.

"He saved my life back in November," Howard answered instead. "I was about to take a bullet to the brain by Hydra, but Barnes got to the bastard first. In return, I offered him anything he wanted and he chose this. Well, he said he just wanted to spend time with you without any interruptions. I said I could give him that in style."

Beatrice couldn't believe this was happening. All she had wanted was a few hours of time to spend with Bucky. Now she was getting an entire night with him in one of London's best hotels with no fear of interruptions? "I can't believe it," she said faintly.

"You'll believe it when you see the bill," Howard said darkly, as a car behind them honked its horn impatiently. In response, he turned their own engine off completely. "At least you'll be in good company—rumor has it Churchill is staying here." He reached into his pocket and tossed a set of keys back to them. "Your room is on the seventh floor, the last suite on the left—"

" _Suite—"_

"And you're under the names Mr. and Mrs. Barnes." Howard looked smug at her flabbergasted expression. The thought of being known as Bucky's wife was too wonderful to comprehend. "Have fun, kids."

"How old are  _you_  again, Howard?" Beatrice couldn't help but shoot back with a grin. "But honestly, I—I can't thank you enough," she said fervently as they climbed out of the limousine.

"Thank your fiancé," Howard called as they stepped out into the night. "If it wasn't for him, I'd be dead right now."

"Thank you for saving Howard," Beatrice said to Bucky. He gave the most genuine laugh she'd heard from him yet. She waited until Howard sped out of the driveway before following Bucky through the revolving doors, still piled high with sandbags, into the lobby.

It was so lavish it nearly took Beatrice's breath away. Everything was polished, the floor so shiny she could see her reflection in the gold leaves that patterned the tile. Diamonds dripped from the chandeliers overhead and the tables and chairs were made of rich mahogany. Mirrors lined with gold were placed on the wall next to the decorated wallpaper. The entire place screamed of the glittering opulence of the nouveau riche. Beatrice would have felt shamefully out of place if she wasn't so awed.

"Mom would have loved this," Bucky said, almost wistfully. "She always wanted to stay in a place like this."

The lost sound in his voice made Beatrice's heart ache for her own mother, but all she could do was squeeze his hand tighter and tell him that Winifred would want him to enjoy every second of the opportunity.

"I plan to," Bucky said, with a smirk that made her face burn with heat. The serum unfortunately hadn't taken away her tendency to blush.

There weren't many other people about—Beatrice glanced down at her wristwatch and saw that it was already six o'clock; all of the other guests must be at supper. She hadn't realized she'd spent so much time at the Whip & Fiddle.

When they reached the elevator, a man wearing a gold-trimmed suit and white gloves greeted them. "Welcome to the Dorchester," he said, as if the name alone was a title in itself. "What floor do you require?"

"The seventh," Bucky said as they stepped inside, showing him their keys. The operator nodded with a slight tip of his hat and pulled the doors closed before cranking the lever and they slowly began to rise.

"You must be Mr. and Mrs. Barnes from Brooklyn, New York," he told them. "Howard Stark informed us you would be staying here tonight."

"Yes," Beatrice said politely. She could feel Bucky's hand on her lower back and it was very distracting; payback, she assumed, from putting her hand on his knee earlier. "His generosity is allowing us to stay here."

The operator looked as though he wanted to say something along the lines of "I gathered, judging by your worn clothes and lack of luggage," but his politeness won out and he only smiled at her. "The suite has been prepared for you," he said. "You should be pleased to know that the Dorchester is one of the sturdiest buildings in London during an air raid, and not a single window has been broken as of yet."

Beatrice thought that this was due more to sheer luck than the sturdiness of the building's foundation, but nevertheless she nodded politely and listened to him talk about the numerous bombing raids the hotel had survived until they arrived at their floor, the doors smoothly gliding open again. Another couple, dressed in much more expensive clothing than Beatrice and Bucky, moved aside so they could pass.

"Was I supposed to tip him?" she asked Bucky as they began to walk down the long, red-carpeted hallway. "I don't have any money with me—"

He shook his head. "I think he probably knew that already, Rosie." She sighed and he grinned at her pout, reaching down to kiss her. The feel of his lips on hers never failed to make her heart pound, and she nearly forgot that they were standing in the middle of a narrow corridor where any number of important figures could appear at any minute. She reluctantly broke away from him, but her heart was still pounding as he struggled to fit the keys into the lock—she noticed with some vindictiveness that it took him several tries to open.

The first thing she noticed when she walked into the suite was that it was twice the size of the apartment she had grown up in, open and spacious, looking more like an apartment in itself than a hotel room. The floor was carpeted and sank into her toes as she kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her coat, retreating further inside with an awed look on her face. There was a sitting-room with a pair of armchairs, a couch, and a table filled with fresh fruit. The heavy blackout curtains around the windows were drawn, but if Beatrice's scant knowledge of London geography was correct, they would have a spectacular view of Hyde Park in the morning. Beautiful paintings of the English countryside adorned the walls, and there was even a fire crackling in the grate.

A pair of French doors led to the bedroom, and Beatrice stopped in the doorway, wide-eyed, as she saw the massive four-poster bed in the middle of the room with roses scattered across the pillows. There were more chairs in here, too, and a reading-desk with a newspaper folded neatly on top of it. Beyond she could see the bathroom, probably the biggest she'd ever come across, with a claw-footed bathtub that was far too large for one person. She feared this was all a dream and she would wake up any moment; any little movement she made would shatter the illusion.

But the warmth and solidness of Bucky's arms as he wrapped them around her from behind was much too real to be a dream. She leaned back into him and gave a soft whimper as she felt his mouth draw a slow, burning line down her throat. A fierce hunger ignited deep in her bones, searing through her skin. She knew what was going to happen next—had known it since she'd first laid eyes on him that day and caught a glimpse of the cardboard package in the pocket of his field jacket—and Beatrice knew that she was prepared for it this time. This was deliberate, nothing at all like their frantic night together in the Hydra cell, but she still felt a heady rush of adrenaline as she twisted around to look up at him, desperate to speak before every thought left her head entirely. "You must have really saved Howard's life, huh?" she said. "But you could have asked for anything in return. Why did you choose this?"

Bucky's face was completely serious. "I wanted a night with you and no one else."

Beatrice's heart, which hadn't stopped pounding since he had kissed her in the hallway, was fluttering even faster, threatening to jump right out of her chest. "But what if you have to leave?" she said faintly. "If the Howling Commandos need you—"

"I don't care," he replied grimly. "I need you."

She was speechless, unable to reply, and Bucky took the opportunity to lean down and kiss her, his lips teasing the answer out of her that she couldn't say aloud. She had lost count by now of how many times they had kissed, but it was always a shock to her system, a jolt of electricity that made her wonder how on earth she had lived any sort of life before she'd met him.

Not to be outdone, Beatrice threw herself into the kiss, capturing his lower lip with her teeth and running her tongue along it while pushing his field jacket off of his shoulders. He impatiently shrugged it off before his hands came up to cup her face, his fingers splayed across her jaw, deepening the kiss as if he was going to devour her whole. This was the culmination of a year spent apart; of stolen kisses and embraces, of words left unsaid and letters left unsent. And this was Bucky Barnes—not the stoic soldier and not the carefree Brooklyn boy, but something much more raw and real and true. This was Bucky with every pretense stripped away, Bucky as no one but Beatrice and Steve had ever seen him.

"I—I need you too," she managed to gasp back against his mouth, her head whirling crazily. All she could see and hear and feel was him. "I love you."

He smirked, but his eyes were still blazing. "I know," Bucky murmured, and crushed her to him once again.

They stumbled backward in a sudden outburst of passion, holding each other with a strength that Beatrice certainly didn't remember having the first time they'd done this. Their mouths smashed together in a way that was neither graceful nor smooth, blind hunger overtaking them. Bucky grasped hold of her and lifted her up off the ground, Beatrice's legs wrapping around his waist as she planted hard kisses all over his face and neck. He carried her over to the bed and laid her surprisingly gently atop it, her hair splayed across the pillows. Their clothes were disheveled and Bucky's shirt was halfway unbuttoned, but Beatrice didn't think they would need to worry about that for much longer.

"You know, this is the first time we've had a bed," she said weakly, falling back onto the soft cushions and staring with wide eyes up at him.

"Good thing, too," Bucky muttered, his voice a low growl. Beatrice expected him to kiss her again, but he stayed hovering above her for a moment, staring down at her face. She saw his eyes roving across her features as if he was trying to memorize the precise way she looked at that moment. "I would have done it all again for this, Rosie," he said, and bowed his head as he kissed the tender skin of her throat, his hair tickling her face.

"So would I," she admitted, and shivered as his hands snaked under her slip and then her brassiere, trailing across her stomach and up to her breasts. She arched her body toward him as he slowly raised his head, and she kissed him on the nose, missing his mouth entirely. Beatrice couldn't help but giggle, a moment of levity in an otherwise heated situation. She turned her head to the side so Bucky could impatiently brush her hair away and again noticed the roses on the pillows. A question sprang to her mind, and she ventured, "You didn't ask for the roses, did you? It's a nice touch, but—"

"No, I didn't ask for them," Bucky said, with an almost playful roll of his eyes. His knees were on either side of her hips, careful not to put any of his weight on her, though Beatrice was certain it wouldn't make a difference if he did. She tugged impatiently at his tie, the hunger burning inside her growing into a keen ache throughout her entire body, and he seemed just as eager. Within twenty seconds and her help, his trousers were soon lying on the floor along with his jacket. Beatrice's own clothes were made quick work of, and she took a moment to wonder at how much Bucky's body had changed since she'd last seen him—his muscles were much more developed than she remembered and there were at least a dozen scars covering his body—but his fingers were doing things to her that chased every coherent thought out of her mind for good.

 _"Bucky,"_ she hissed, too shocked to feel embarrassed at what he was doing, and she could feel him smirk against her skin. Her fingernails dug into his back, and he covered her body with his as they came together again in a kiss that Beatrice hoped would never be broken.

She gasped into his mouth as his fingers slipped between her legs, her hips jerking upward, and Bucky raised his head to smile down at her, seemingly amused by her reaction.

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly. He paused, and her body ached for him again. She clenched her teeth to stop another involuntary moan.

"Returning the favor," he whispered, his mouth ghosting up to her ear, running his tongue along the shell, and Beatrice suddenly remembered that she had done the same thing to him when they were trapped in the Hydra cell.

"You remembered," she whispered.

"Of course I did, doll. God, you have no idea how much I thought about you—" Bucky groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as a shudder passed through his body. He was pressing uncomfortably into her stomach, but Beatrice didn't care. He tried to say something else—a plea?—and she whispered into his lips as he blindly pulled her face back to his again, kissing her with a fervor that was almost terrifying in its desperation.

It was clear that he was coming undone even faster than her. This wasn't at all like the first time, when Beatrice had been nervous and unsure what to do. Now she was emboldened with confidence that she held all of the power. It seemed more prudent to do this at night, when the things she was doing seemed as though they weren't quite real, as though the truth of them would somehow disappear in the morning. But Bucky's shallow, ragged breathing was most definitely real.

She thought back to the hushed conversations she and her fellow nurses had had on the rare occasions they'd had free time to talk about such things—well, Diana and Caroline had spoken while Beatrice and Ruth listened—about what men liked, about what illicit activities went on between soldiers and their sweethearts if they only had a few minutes in which to be alone. After she'd gotten used to the shock of hearing such acts spoken about so brazenly, Beatrice had carefully taken note of what the other women said in case the knowledge ever became useful one day.

But she had never imagined that day would come so soon. And Beatrice would be lying if she tried to convince herself that she wasn't a little bit enticed by the idea.

"Turn over," she murmured between kisses. It was getting more difficult to tear herself away from him. "Please."

Confusion briefly flickered across his face, but he obeyed, rolling onto his back next to her. Beatrice sat up, shaking roses out of her hair, and moved her legs so that she was sitting astride him, her hair falling into her face. Bucky's hands moved to rest on her hips, his fingers drawing light patterns on her skin. He didn't look displeased by the sudden change in position—in fact, he just seemed curious. Looking down at Bucky's face, she knew he was perfectly happy giving up control to her, that he trusted her entirely. Beatrice's heart swelled so that she could barely speak.

"You said that you've been imagining us," she told him, bending over to kiss his forehead, his jaw, the scars on his throat. "Well, this is what  _I've_ been imagining."

She ran her fingers down his chest, his stomach, his abdomen clenching at her touch, but stopping just before where he wanted her the most. She kissed around his stomach, the swirl of hair below his navel, while her fingers continued moving downward, but failing to reach any further than that. It didn't take long before he finally broke.

"Rosie, I'm gonna—" he gasped, his voice strangled. Beads of sweat stood out on his face. His fingers dug into her hips. He seemed to be using every ounce of self-control he possessed not to let himself go.

Seeing that he was close to the edge, Beatrice finally lowered herself onto him. It only took a few rolls of her hips before he blindly pulled her to him, his hands clutching at her waist. His entire body tensed, his hair sweaty and his breath coming out in choked gasps. Dimly, she thought that Bucky had never been more beautiful than this.

When he came back to himself, still breathing hard, he reached down and his own fingers teased her in turn until she let out a cry, her vision turning into an explosion of fractured colors. Bucky didn't take his mouth away from Beatrice until she was recovered enough to open her eyes, stray shivers running down her spine. Her hands were gripping his hair so tightly it must have been painful, but he didn't make a sound.

"Holy  _shit,"_ Beatrice breathed, taking her hand away from her mouth. She couldn't help the wide, breathless grin that spread across her face.

Bucky's eyes gleamed. "That good, Rosie? I've never heard you swear before."

"It was better than good," Beatrice confessed; her head was still spinning. Despite her best efforts, she hadn't managed to keep entirely quiet—then again, it wasn't the first time she had made a sound that evening, and there hadn't been any complaints from the other guests yet.

When she finally had the strength to roll away from him, she was grinning from ear to ear, giddily exuberant. Bucky held out his arms to her, and Beatrice crawled into them, snuggling in his embrace. She felt warm and content and happier than she had in months.

"That was mean, wasn't it?" she asked sheepishly as his mouth lazily traced a path down her collarbone. "I guess I should apologize."

Bucky paused, looking up at her from under his eyelashes, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "You don't need to apologize for anything, Rosie," he said hoarsely, his arms tightening around her. She could hear the dull echo of his heart in his chest. "You nearly drove me crazy there."

He was half-hard again, and she inwardly marveled at his stamina. Last time, he had collapsed against her and been unable to move for quite a while. Perhaps it was because of the serum—but no, she told herself. It couldn't be.

"But I  _am_ sorry," Bucky admitted, looking slightly, adorably ashamed. "I didn't mean for it to be over so quick."

Beatrice grinned and kissed him on the mouth. "That's fine," she said mischievously. "We have all night."

* * *

Morning sunlight filtered in through the cracks between the drapes and the wall; Beatrice shielded her eyes from it at first and snuggled deeper into Bucky's embrace. She felt a blush warm her face that slowly covered her entire body as the memory of the previous night came back to her. She should be a lot more exhausted than she was; she supposed she had the serum to thank for that. What a miracle it would be to wake up to this every morning, she thought as she turned her head to look at him beside her, his hand resting atop hers on the pillow, his face smooth and unlined in sleep. Just the two of them, far away from the war, her and Bucky as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes—

He stirred as she shifted next to him, gray eyes opening sleepily and a slow smile curving across his face as he remembered where they were. "Sorry," Beatrice whispered quickly. "I didn't mean to wake you up—"

Bucky scoffed and drew her closer, his warm hand rubbing up and down her back. "Best sleep I've had in months," he murmured into her hair. Beatrice turned up her face for a kiss, and he seemed more than happy to oblige, his lips softly brushing against hers. He pulled back too soon, a grin crossing his face when he saw her disappointed expression.

But according to someone like her mother, she shouldn't be disappointed at all. What she and Bucky had done in the Hydra cell was one thing when they had both been desperate and believing they were about to die. But last night, they'd had no such fear, and she had allowed him to kiss and touch her in ways even the soldiers deemed filthy, and she had in turn done the same things to him. Worse, she had done more than just allowed it, she had wanted it.

Then again, if she was going to marry Bucky anyway, how could a few words spoken in a church possibly make any difference? Was she less worthy to love him because they hadn't been blessed by a priest? Her father had never attended church; Beatrice and Elena had only gone to mass on special occasions, and even then it was because of her mother's Catholic upbringing. If God were to judge her, Beatrice decided, He would have far more to go on than her lost virtue.

"Last night was the first time in months I didn't have nightmares," Bucky admitted after a long, comfortable silence. He sounded strangely hesitant, his fingers stroking Beatrice's arms.

She twisted her head around to look at him. "Nightmares?" Beatrice repeated. Bucky cast his gaze down to her bracelet as if he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Yeah," he said after a pause. "I've been having them since I came over here. At first I hoped they would just go away, but they haven't."

"And you didn't tell me?" Beatrice demanded. She raised her hand to touch his face and Bucky wrapped his fingers around her slim wrist, bringing her hand up to his mouth in an almost absentminded gesture.

"I didn't want you to worry. They're not that bad." He tried to grin at her, shrugging, but the dark circles under his eyes betrayed more than just the stress of long nights spent on duty.

"Have you told the others?"

"No," Bucky said. "We don't really talk about that kind of stuff."

Beatrice frowned. "Not even with Steve?"

He shook his head. "Steve has other things to worry about. Look, it's nothing, Rosie. I can deal with it."

But she wasn't convinced. "They're about Zola, aren't they?" she asked. "What he did to you—to us."

A strange expression crossed Bucky's face. "How do you know?" he said, his hands momentarily stilling on her.

It took Beatrice a moment before she could reply. "Because I get them, too."

Bucky bowed his head as if in prayer, but he was staring at their intertwined fingers, his gaze suddenly distant. "And what do you do about them?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble that sent little shockwaves throughout Beatrice's body.

"I think of you. And Steve. And Brooklyn," she said, echoing the words he had said to her so many months ago when he'd first confessed his inability to sleep.

A grin spread across his face, something that chased the darkness from his eyes and his voice. He buried his head in her hair and she felt him inhale deeply as if breathing in her scent.

It was so easy for her to just lie here and forget about the rest of the world, about her promise to Ivan and her duties to the SSR and even the way her stomach had twisted earlier at seeing Steve staring at Peggy Carter like a lost puppy. She could even drive out thoughts of Schmidt and Zola and the way the Red Skull had held her head underwater and left her to drown when he was torturing her for information on Henry. She felt safe with Bucky in a way she never had before, not even when she was a child.

But when she could ignore the growing light no longer, she sighed to herself and slowly sat up, Bucky moving along with her. His hair was rumpled, his eyes still heavy with sleep as he watched her. "You're not leavin' already, are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Didn't think you'd be the type to run away afterwards."

"I couldn't leave the last time—we were trapped in a cell, if you don't remember," Beatrice teased, and shuddered as Bucky kissed a line up her back, his teeth gently nipping at her shoulder.

"I do remember that," he said huskily, stopping at her neck and staring up at her with hooded eyes. "Vividly. Was it really that bad? You should have told me, Rosie."

Beatrice tried very hard to keep a straight face; it was difficult to maintain any sort of composure when he was looking at her like that. "I'm really not the best judge of that. I don't have anything to compare it with."

Bucky wound a strand of her hair around his finger almost absent-mindedly, his teeth flashing briefly as he grinned. "Unfortunately you're stuck with me now, doll. It's in the papers and everything."

"The papers?" Beatrice echoed, frowning. "What do you mean?"

His face was deceptively innocent as he regarded her. "A couple of months ago we were interviewed for the USO newsreels. I said that you were my fiancée." Bucky looked overly pleased at the simple word. "They tried to ask Steve about you too, and all he would say was that you're one of his best friends."

Beatrice laughed incredulously, warmly flattered at the boys' descriptions of her. "So what are they calling me?" she asked. "The Howling Commandos' personal nurse? That'll teach the kid down the street who used to call me a void coupon."

Bucky's eyes narrowed at this previously unknown bit of information, but Beatrice gave a slight shrug, letting him know that the insult no longer bothered her, and he slowly relaxed again. "Yeah, well, you've been pretty isolated. I don't think the press'll be able to find you for a while." He adjusted his position so that he was sitting up against the pillows and Beatrice leaned back into him. The sun was growing stronger with every minute that passed; as much as she didn't want to think about it, they would have to get out of bed soon. "You know, I was thinking about the first time we met," Bucky said after another moment.

Beatrice grinned, wishing she could see his face when she next spoke. "When you thought I was a prostitute?"

Thankfully, his reaction didn't disappoint. " _What?"_ he choked.

Beatrice had him, and he knew it. "You said, and I quote, 'You don't think she's a harlot, do you?'"

"Well, how was I supposed to know that, Rosie?" he protested. "Steve found you in a back alley in _Flatbush._  He could have rescued anyone."

"And I'm sure he would have," she said, idly looking up at the clock hanging on the opposite wall, which stubbornly continued to tick despite her wish for it to stay still forever. When she saw the time, she gasped and immediately untangled herself from him, pushing off the bedclothes and standing up. "It's eight-thirty!" she yelped. "I was supposed to meet Ivan half an hour ago!"

Bucky didn't seem too disturbed. "He can wait," he said, climbing out of bed after her. The sight of Bucky Barnes standing in front of her without clothes would have been enough to make Beatrice feel faint any other time, but now she was too worried to feel flustered. "At least we can take a bath before we go. Hot water isn't rationed here."

She paused in the middle of gathering her stockings, following his pointed gaze from the enormous bathtub in the next room back to Bucky himself, who looked far more smug than he had any right to be. "We?" she asked in a slightly strangled voice.

Bucky smirked devilishly in return, wordlessly taking her hand and leading her to the bathtub, and Beatrice found that she was all too happy to follow him. She knew that they were very late, that sooner or later the maid would come in or Ivan would send Howard to check on them, but when Bucky paused in the doorway to spontaneously grab her face and kiss the breath out of her again, she found it very difficult to care.

Maybe, at least, he would be able to dream of this.


	26. XXVI

Beatrice stared numbly down at the food in front of her, pushing her fork around the plate to make it look like she was eating. Even if she  _had_ been hungry, she doubted she would have had more than a few bites of the rubbery-looking fish that was the Whip & Fiddle's special of the day; she could only assume their drinks were better than their food. Then again, Bucky had wolfed down  _his_ meal and Ivan had cleared his own plate. Maybe it was just nerves.

It was closer to lunch than breakfast when they'd finally arrived at the pub—Beatrice red from head to toe, sure she would have to think up an excuse for her extreme tardiness other than the fact that she and Bucky had gotten too distracted to keep track of time—but Ivan had greeted them mildly without demanding any explanation whatsoever, although Beatrice had stuttered out an apology. Perhaps her uncle had guessed what they had been doing and chose not to comment on it like Howard most certainly would when they saw him next.

Beatrice set her fork down and pushed the plate away before reaching for her glass of water; she hoped it would settle her stomach. As she did so, she uncrossed and crossed her legs for the umpteenth time that morning, her legs shaking madly under the table. A moment later, she felt the comforting warmth of Bucky's hand on her knee, stilling her. It was the mirror of what she had done to him yesterday, and Beatrice glanced over at him, sure that her trepidation was written all over her face. His answering expression was grim but determined. She knew that he didn't want her to go through with this, with what Ivan had asked her to do, but she also knew that he was aware of the consequences if she did nothing. "I still don't understand why you wanted to meet here, of all places," she said, hoping her voice was even.

"It rouses the least amount of suspicion," Ivan replied. He appeared outwardly relaxed, but there was a definite underlying current of tension in his eyes and voice, which didn't make Beatrice herself feel any better. "And, paradoxically, it ensures that we are unable to be overheard."

She had to admit he was right: the background chatter and clinking of glasses drowned out any possibility of eavesdroppers being able to overhear them, even if they were seated at the next table. Beatrice was just stalling for time, some irrational part of her hoping that someone would burst in with the Norn Stone and things would settle down again.  _It's not difficult,_ she tried to tell herself firmly.  _All I have to do is make sure that no one's in the barracks before I start searching for it. Bucky and Uncle Ivan will be keeping watch outside._

"And you're certain that she's Hydra," Bucky said from beside her, echoing the same doubt that Beatrice had when Ivan told them about his suspicions. It seemed impossible that a Hydra mole could have been working in the SSR all along without Colonel Phillips getting wind of it; even more when Ivan literally possessed a stone that showed him the location of his enemies. But if Schmidt had known about the stone all along, he would have been careful to instruct the spy to avoid Ivan. It was improbable, Beatrice thought, but not impossible.

"I am certain of it, Sergeant Barnes," her uncle said solemnly. He turned back to Beatrice. "I just need to give word to Howard to disable the surveillance cameras outside the barracks. I should be back shortly."

Beatrice nodded, and Ivan excused himself to send a message to Howard, leaving her and Bucky alone. She didn't know why her heart was pounding as crazily as if she was about to infiltrate a Hydra base. Bucky must think she was overreacting. "I have to do this," she told him, but they both knew that she was really trying to convince herself.

"I know," Bucky replied. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he stared at her with something brewing behind his eyes. Beatrice knew that look well enough by now—he was either about to say something unusually serious or kiss her. Instead of waiting for him to decide, she spoke first.

"Thinking about our final goodbye?" she asked, half-laughing. She hoped he couldn't hear the note of hysteria in her voice. "Bucky, this isn't the Titanic. I just need to find the stone and bring it to Ivan. But if you had a speech prepared…"

He grinned ruefully and unfolded his arms. "C'mere," he said, and Beatrice obediently leaned into him, burrowing her face into his shoulder. She could pretend they were in bed at the Dorchester again with weeks of lazy nights ahead of them. "You want a speech, huh? Shakespeare or Keats?"

"Neither," said Beatrice, raising her head slightly to better see his face. "I just want Bucky Barnes."

He shook his head ruefully. "I'm afraid I'm not that exciting, doll. I'm exactly the same as every other poor schmuck fighting out there who doesn't care about anything other than getting back to his sweetheart. The only difference between us is that my girl is here with me."

"Nice save," Beatrice laughed, feeling his lips on the top of her head. When she looked back up at him, however, his expression was very different.

"I love you, Rosie," Bucky said, his voice cracking slightly. It was worth more than any sonnet or love poem could ever be. Somehow stripping the words down to their essential meaning made them so much more real.

Beatrice grinned again, wickedly. "I know."

* * *

According to Howard, the surveillance cameras would only be disabled for ten minutes before Phillips was alerted. Beatrice was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that the SSR was using cameras to monitor their own employees. Although she herself had never been involved in any wrongdoing, she still felt uncomfortable knowing she had been secretly watched whenever she'd entered or left the barracks. But she supposed the SSR couldn't be too careful, especially considering there was a Hydra spy in their midst.

Beatrice paused at the door and slung her musette bag over her shoulder, the heavy weight of a gun settling at the bottom. Bucky had made sure that she would be able to defend herself if things did go wrong, though Beatrice wasn't certain that she would even have the courage to pull the trigger. The past two years of her life had been spent trying to save lives, not take them. Still, it was somewhat of a comfort to feel the handle of a gun against her side as she gazed across the street at Bucky, who was leaning against the brick wall of the chemist's opposite, pretending to read the newspaper. In reality, he was even more heavily armed than she was, keeping an eye open for any of the girls who might happen to be returning to their quarters early. Though Beatrice couldn't see him, Ivan was at the back door standing guard. If there was anyone already inside, Beatrice would tell them that Phillips needed to see them at headquarters. That would ensure she had enough time to find the Stone and make sure nothing else was disturbed before leaving.

Beatrice knew this entire mission rested on her shoulders—if she was discovered, or failed to find the Norn Stone, she risked not only letting a potentially deadly weapon fall into the hands of Hydra, she risked becoming seriously injured or even killed. But this was necessary, she repeated to herself for the hundredth time. It was a chance to prove herself—not just as an army nurse, but as an agent of the SSR.

Bucky glanced up from his newspaper and met her eyes across the busy street; his intent expression cracked for a moment and she saw him smile. She grinned back at him and then quickly turned to the door, face warm at the secret they both shared. Steve had told her he became utterly focused when on a mission, so either he was just trying to comfort her or he wasn't all that worried. Beatrice sincerely hoped it was the latter.

It was a short climb up a staircase to reach the main sleeping quarters, past the communal kitchen and bathroom, but Beatrice took her time scouting the place, making sure that all of the rooms were empty before moving onto the main floor. She tried and failed to calm herself as she walked into the barracks and saw Private Lorraine sitting on her bed, dressed in her SSR uniform and her legs primly crossed as she wrote in a journal. She looked up when she heard Beatrice's footsteps and closed the notebook, giving a curt nod as she placed it in her suitcase, which Beatrice didn't recall seeing before. Hadn't she come in empty-handed the previous day?

"Good morning, Beatrice," Lorraine greeted her, a peculiar spark in her eyes as she said, "We were wondering where you were last night."

Not only did she have to get Lorraine out of the barracks, she now had to field questions about her absence after supper. "I guess I lost track of time," Beatrice said, trying to look as nonchalant as possible as she went over to her bed and rummaged in the nightstand for a hairbrush. She hoped Lorraine didn't notice how badly her hands were shaking. She would make a terrible spy. How did Ivan do it?

But the other girl wasn't willing to give up so easily. "We took bets on whether you were with Sergeant Barnes or Captain Rogers."

Beatrice's hand tightened on the handle and she forced herself not to glare at Lorraine in the mirror, who looked unbearably smug. She waited a moment before she delivered the final blow. "I bet that you were with both of them."

The sound of the brush clattering onto the table was nearly deafening, echoing throughout the entire room as Beatrice turned around, seething. She had never particularly liked Lorraine, and keeping her tone civil was becoming more difficult with every passing second. "Sergeant Barnes happens to be my fiancé," she said, cursing herself for taking the bait.

"Oh, I know," Lorraine shrugged. "It was just a joke. They're best friends—I don't think they'd mind."

While Beatrice wondered why it couldn't have been Caroline or Ruth or even Peggy who was there instead, Lorraine was still talking, ignoring the fact that Beatrice was bristling. "Rogers isn't that great of a kisser, anyway. A looker, certainly, but you could get more of a response out of a dead fish than him."

 _Tell that to Agent Carter,_ Beatrice thought harshly, white-hot anger and frustration boiling up in her stomach. Refusing to give Lorraine the satisfaction of a retort, she forced her face into the most pleasant smile she could muster and said, "Oh, by the way, Colonel Phillips needs you in his office. He'll be away this afternoon and wants you to take his calls."

"You could have told me that when you first got here," Lorraine muttered, looking disappointed that she hadn't gotten a reaction from Beatrice. She tossed her curls and began to walk toward the door, slipping on her shoes as she went. Beatrice was surprised she wasn't putting up more of a fight. "Don't they need you, too? Goodall and MacGregor are attending a briefing at headquarters."

Beatrice had completely forgotten about the meeting she was supposed to attend that morning, and decided she would make up an excuse for Phillips later. "No, I'm not feeling very well," she said—at least that was partially the truth. Lorraine raised her eyebrows, but didn't look too suspicious as she shrugged and left without another word. Beatrice waited until the sound of her footsteps had faded and she distantly heard the front door open and close before springing into action.

She was running behind schedule—the talk with Lorraine had cost her at least five minutes; Phillips would discover the downed surveillance cameras very soon if he hadn't already—and so Beatrice didn't check the window to see if Lorraine was walking down the street before she hurried across the room to the other girl's suitcase, crushing the lock in her fingers until it snapped open—a feat of strength that would have amazed her if it had been any other time.

Beatrice had been skeptical when Ivan told her that he believed Lorraine herself to be the double agent, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized it made perfect sense. Lorraine had never spoken about her family or life back home, she was cool and aloof, and Ivan had never spoken to her directly—she'd always left the room whenever she spotted him. The last person on Earth they would suspect to be Hydra was a pretty blonde American woman. At any rate, Beatrice was certain that Lorraine was hiding a cruel streak.

The only thing Beatrice doubted now was that Lorraine hadn't thought of a better hiding-place than her own suitcase. But the women's barracks were off-limits to even Phillips, guarded by surveillance cameras, and there were only four other women besides Lorraine herself staying there—easy for her to supervise their movements. Besides, the lock on her suitcase was suspect enough—why would she need to lock up her clothes?

The first thing Beatrice picked up was the notebook Lorraine had been writing in. She opened it up and flipped through the pages, seeing that it was covered in scrawls of indecipherable German. Of course it would be useful for Phillips to have a secretary who spoke the language, but this looked more like code to Beatrice. She tossed it aside and began to haphazardly pull clothes out of Lorraine's suitcase, her heart sinking as she saw nothing but layers and layers of fabric, and then a decidedly empty bottom. Beatrice tried shaking the clothes out to see if the stone was hidden in one of the pockets, but she came up empty-handed. Panic was beginning to set in as her wristwatch beeped loudly, signaling that her ten minutes was up. There would be agents coming to check the surveillance cameras within minutes, and Lorraine would likely return as soon as possible once she realized that Phillips hadn't called for her. Beatrice knew Ivan wouldn't blame her if she failed to retrieve the stone, but she couldn't disappoint him now after he had done so much for her and Henry.

In one last act of desperation, Beatrice ran her hand along the bottom of the suitcase, not expecting to find anything—and her fingers suddenly caught on a jagged edge. She froze, prodding at the object—it felt like a rock was embedded in the fabric, but it was the same size and shape as she remembered the stone being. Her nail caught on an irregular line that couldn't be anything other than stitches.

Heart in her throat, Beatrice tore it apart with her fingers, and slowly raised the sparkling Norn Stone, careful not to let it touch her skin—she was wearing gloves for that very purpose. She stared, awestruck, unable to believe her last-minute luck.  _"Bóže mój,"_  she whispered, transfixed.

As much as she had tried to push the strange visions out of her mind, she kept coming back to them, puzzling over them in her mind. She had to have been wrong—it couldn't be the future. That was impossible. The words had come tumbling out of her mouth like she herself hadn't said them.

But was that even more impossible than it showing Ivan where his enemies were, or a weapon that was able to literally disintegrate people and leave not a speck of ash behind, or a serum that somehow enhanced Beatrice's strength and senses and turned the five-feet-four-inches Steve into a six-foot-tall muscular super-soldier? It hadn't been the world that had changed, after all—it was her understanding of it. And she guessed that it was far easier to change her view on the world than to change the universe.

If she were to come into contact with the stone again, would she see the same visions as she had before? The city—the flash of gleaming metal—the glowing red eyes—the flash of colors that, on second thought, looked suspiciously like the color scheme of Steve's shield—and perhaps most chillingly, the ruined gauntlet. Or would she see something different? Were they just hallucinations, or were they the truth?

Beatrice knew she was quickly running out of time, but her curiosity had suddenly awoken with a burning desire to know what exactly it was that she had seen. She peeled off her glove and held the stone by the tips of her fingers, taking a deep breath. The room was still empty, and she couldn't hear any movement at all stirring within the barracks. All it would take was one second, and then she would put Lorraine's suitcase back in order and pretend to be asleep when the others came back.

So Beatrice let go. It seemed to take an eternity for the stone to fall from one hand to the other, and the pounding of her heart was audible in her ears as she watched its descent—

And then there was a bright flash around her, as if the building had been struck by lightning, and Beatrice was somewhere else entirely. She was no longer kneeling on the floor of the barracks, but standing on the sidewalk of the same city in her first vision, the skyscrapers a sea of gleaming glass buildings. She was rooted to the spot, staring up at them in awe. Her eyes scanned the skyline—the sky was an unnaturally brilliant blue—and saw the spire of the Empire State Building rising up in the distance. Was she in Manhattan? But this wasn't the Manhattan she knew—the buildings were far too tall. The people walking by on the street were different, too—they wore strange clothing Beatrice had never seen before, all in bright colors; many of the women had odd hairstyles and were wearing trousers and skirts that were far too short to be proper. Beatrice caught a glimpse of a group walking by and saw that their eyes were all covered with a blue haze. None of them looked to the left or right; they were simply walking forward like automatons. None of them so much as glanced her way. A cold shiver of fear began to creep down her back. Was this a nightmare, then? What kind of vision was this?

Something cold and metallic pressed against the back of her throat, and Beatrice shuddered away from it—her surroundings shifted and disappeared, reforming into the familiar setting of the barracks. Only this time she wasn't alone, and there was a gun pressing into the back of her neck.

"I'm surprised I was able to sneak up on you," Lorraine said, as the Norn Stone slipped from Beatrice's suddenly numb fingers onto the ground. "Maybe that serum wasn't so great, after all."

"How—" Beatrice choked, but her words were swallowed by the loud click as Lorraine disengaged the safety. "Not a word," she instructed. "Let's keep this between us, shall we? Maybe you should have made sure I'd actually left the building before going through my belongings. You know, I would congratulate you on figuring out that it was me, but it wasn't you who figured it out, was it? You were just the least suspicious person who would happen to come in here. I knew something was wrong as soon as you walked in here today. You're a terrible liar, Beatrice. Not to mention it's laughable that you believed I would leave something as valuable as that stone lying around. Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you," she said as Beatrice squirmed, the gun only pressing deeper into her neck. "But the Red Skull might want to. Either that, or he'll let you become Zola's lab rat again. I'm not sure which is worse."

Beatrice didn't know much about hand-to-hand combat, but she did know that it was a priority, first and foremost, to get the gun out of Lorraine's hand. She would be expecting her to reach up and grab it, so Beatrice kicked her leg out as hard as she could, catching Lorraine by the ankles. The other woman grunted in surprise and the gun clattered to the ground. Beatrice lunged for it, but Lorraine, recovering quickly, knocked it out of her reach and it went spinning across the floor, under one of the beds and hitting the opposite wall.

Now the closest gun was in Beatrice's musette bag; she grabbed the Norn Stone and scrambled across the floor, but she had barely managed to get into a standing position before she was tackled from behind by Lorraine, the stone flying out of her hands and bouncing away. Beatrice threw her elbow out blindly and hit Lorraine in the face; she winced as she heard something crack—she had never used that kind of strength before—and that moment of hesitation cost her: Lorraine tackled her to the ground again, blood dripping from her mouth where Beatrice had knocked out several of her teeth. Her eyes were wild and her teeth bared in a snarl as she pinned down Beatrice's hands so she couldn't get away; Beatrice strained against her bonds, but Lorraine was digging her knee into her stomach so hard that she couldn't muster up the strength. "You might be stronger, but you don't know how to fight," she said, and spat blood into Beatrice's face. "And because of that you will always lose."

Shaking with anger and adrenaline, Beatrice twisted onto her side and gasped for breath as she managed to wrench free of one of her hands, quickly grabbing Lorraine's hand and bending her fingers backwards. The other woman sucked in a sharp intake of breath as Beatrice felt them snap, and the pressure on her stomach loosened.

Wheezing, she pulled herself forward, out of Lorraine's grasp, and brought her fist back around to punch the other girl squarely in the nose. Blood poured out of it and Lorraine growled, running right at Beatrice and slamming her into the wall. The beams splintered and Beatrice's head cracked into it with such a force that it should probably have given her a concussion, if not outright brain damage. But her vision only wavered for a moment before focusing on Lorraine again, who had her fingers around Beatrice's throat and was squeezing hard. She tried to push her away, but she was only scrambling uselessly, her stomach still heaving, and Lorraine's fingers were pushing on her throat in such a way that Beatrice was out cold before she even realized what was happening.

* * *

What many SSR agents—even Ivan, who was one of their very best—didn't know was that there were a series of underground tunnels linking the various buildings that belonged to the agency's London branch. The tunnels were designed to connect all of the SSR-affiliated buildings together in case it became too dangerous to venture outside. Lorraine knew about them, of course, because one learned a great deal of useful things when one was Colonel Phillips' secretary, but very few others did. So it was simple for her to drag Beatrice's unconscious form down to the kitchen, where she tore off the oddly-shaped floorboard no one had ever thought to question, and leapt into the damp tunnel below, on her way to King's Cross Station.

Meanwhile, the ten-minute rendezvous had long since come and gone, and Bucky had put down the newspaper and was drumming his fingers against his leg, longing to have a gun in his hand to keep them occupied. There had been no word from either Beatrice or Ivan, and when he could stand it no longer he pushed himself off the wall and strode across the street, mouth set in a hard line.

"Buck!"

Steve's voice rang out from behind him, and Bucky reluctantly paused as the blond man hurried up to him. "I was just looking for you," he said. "There's been a problem with the surveillance cameras all across headquarters. Phillips thinks they might have been taken down intentionally."

"They have," Bucky said grimly. "Listen, I have to find Rosie. Something's gone wrong."

"Gone wrong?" Steve asked, baffled. "Why do you need to find Beatrice?"

"I'll explain later," Bucky said, jaw tight, and pushed open the door to the women's barracks. Wishing that Peggy was there, Steve had no choice but to follow him, ready to apologize to whoever happened to be inside.

But the building was empty, save for himself, Bucky, and Ivan, who had already come in through the back door and was kneeling next to a loose floorboard, through which there was a gaping black abyss instead of the ground.

"Someone escaped through here," Ivan said worriedly. "The rest of the place is empty. Did Beatrice know about this?"

"No," Bucky said. There was a strange expression on his face. "At least she never said anything about it."

Ivan turned to Steve. "Was Private Lorraine with Phillips this morning?"

Steve shook his head. "No—he said she has the day off. Why?"

"Then Lorraine took her," Bucky snarled, ignoring Steve's question. "Where does it lead?"

"I don't know," Ivan admitted. "Probably to somewhere with transportation out of the city. She must have been in a hurry—she didn't put the trapdoor back."

"Or she didn't care about getting caught," Bucky said darkly. Without hesitation, he strode forward and swung himself down into the tunnel, and Steve, knowing that Beatrice was in danger if nothing else, followed him.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," said Chester Phillips, leaning back in his chair and staring incredulously at Ivan, who was pacing around the office looking frantic. Behind him, Howard was leaning against the doorframe, more serious than Phillips had ever seen him. "Your blasted magic stone went missing and you got it into your head that it had been stolen by my private secretary, who also happened to be a Hydra spy—so instead of coming to me, you sent your inexperienced niece to retrieve it." Phillips grabbed a cigar from the desk drawer and took his time lighting it, letting the words sink in before regarding Ivan through a cloud of smoke. "I didn't expect this from you, Agent Romanov."

Ivan abruptly halted his pacing and waved away the haze in front of his face. "It was extraordinarily foolish of me, Colonel. I believed it would arouse less suspicion and locating the stone would be a simple task."

"He didn't want to ask for your permission," Howard spoke up, crossing his arms over his chest and looking longingly at the pack of cigars. "He knew you wouldn't believe him about that secretary."

"Yes, thank you, Howard," Ivan said irritably. "But he is right—I was not thinking clearly. I should have realized that the girl would be prepared for someone discovering what she had done."

"Of course she would!" Phillips exclaimed. "I knew it all along!"

Ivan stopped in the middle of yet another apology. "Excuse me?"

"I always knew Lorraine was a Hydra spy," Phillips snapped. "You think something like that could get past me? She wasn't at first, of course; I noticed that she was beginning to become sympathetic to their cause. But she was useful, unknowingly passing along communication to Schmidt so I could then feed that information to the Howling Commandos. She knew I was on to her, which was why she was planning to make a run for it. I've been giving her false information for the past six months. You would have known this if you had asked me."

Ivan looked stunned; Howard couldn't help but smirk at his expression. "Well, she knows you know now," he said.

Phillips pointed a warning finger at him. "You shut up," he ordered; Howard gave an exaggerated salute in reply. "So not only has she made off with the stone and the Hartley girl, Rogers and Barnes have gone after her. Do you have trackers on them?"

"Yes," Ivan said. "Well, not on  _them,_  exactly—I've asked the Commandos to monitor every incoming and outgoing transmission at the train station. It's the most logical route of transportation for Hydra to use, and King's Cross is only four streets away."

There was a hurried knock on the door. Howard leaned over to open it and Jim Morita stumbled in, breathing as heavily as if he had run the entire way there. "Sir—Colonel Phillips—the radio has picked up a transmission from an unregistered train on the continent. We believe both Nurse Hartley and Arnim Zola are on it, heading to a Hydra base in Austria."

"Pack your climbing gear, boys," Phillips announced, flicking ashes onto the floor and standing up. "We're going to the Alps."


	27. XXVII

The sound of Steve and Bucky's footsteps pounding down the hidden tunnel echoed off the walls as they sprinted down the labyrinthine passageway in search of Lorraine and Beatrice. Neither of them heeded Ivan's warning calls after their retreating backs.

The tunnel was pitch-black and the ground slippery with slime and mold, too narrow for them to run side-by-side. Bucky was in front, his hands braced against the walls to feel his way forward, moving at a pace that surprised Steve. Bucky had always come first in track-and-field at school, but his pace could probably match even Steve's if they were next to each other.

"Buck, an explanation would be great right about now," Steve called. With his enhanced eyesight, he could see the dim outline of Bucky ahead of him, but it wasn't clear by any means. He had no idea how long this tunnel went on for, where it led, or how much of a head start Lorraine had.

Bucky slowed his pace only slightly, his head turning back for a moment to answer Steve. "Phillips' secretary—the Lorraine girl—is a spy for Hydra. She took something of Romanov's and he asked Rosie to get it back for him. It was supposed to be a simple mission but she never returned. Romanov thinks Lorraine was on to it and attacked her."

"Well, that explains why we're after her," Steve said dryly. They rounded a corner and to his great relief, a pinprick of light was visible in the distance, at the top of a rusted steel ladder that looked to be on its last legs. He wondered if they were in the sewers. "But it doesn't explain where she's gone."

"Probably the train station like he said," Bucky answered as they came to a halt in front of the ladder. With a grunt, he hoisted himself up onto the first rung and ripped off the manhole cover that disguised the tunnel. "She's bringing Rosie back to the Red Skull. Or," his voice suddenly held a dangerous edge Steve had rarely heard before, "To Zola."

But before Bucky could pull himself out of the hole, a shadow blocked out the dim light overhead. Steve's eyes adjusted immediately and he saw, with an unpleasant jolt, a feminine figure with curly blonde hair staring down at them with a wide smirk. She was pointing a gun at Bucky's head.

"Hello, boys," Lorraine said, her smirk widening until it was nearly a sneer. "I was wondering how long this would take you."

Steve moved to knock the gun out of her hand, but Bucky was faster: he grabbed the barrel and twisted it upward, bending the metal completely. There was a muffled crack as Lorraine pulled the trigger too late—Bucky grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her down; she landed hard on her back with a groan, the light from above illuminating only the upper half of her face. Her eyes glittered.

"Buck, don't—" Steve warned, but it was too late: Bucky was already pointing his own gun at her, his boot pressed against the side of her throat so she couldn't roll away without choking.

"Where is she?" Bucky growled, his voice shaking with barely concealed rage. "What did you do to her?"

To her credit, not a spark of fear alighted in Lorraine's eyes. "So you care more about Hartley than the Norn Stone. I'm afraid both are gone, or we might have been able to make a trade."

"Norn Stone?" Steve asked.

The secretary was, by all accounts, trapped and unable to escape even if one of them became incapacitated, but Steve's question made her look even more like the cat who had swallowed the canary, like she had been planning for this all along. "You know, I'm surprised," she said, her voice as light as if they were merely conversing over lunch. "For all Phillips brags about you, you'd think he'd have told you about the SSR's secret weapon. How did you think he was able to give you the locations of so many secret Hydra bases so easily? Maybe you are just their dancing monkey after all."

The taunt was enough to weaken Steve's composure, and he took a threatening step forward, his jaw tightly clenched. Bucky steadily increased the pressure on Lorraine's throat until a blue tinge began to rise in her cheeks. Her chest began to heave as her oxygen supply was abruptly cut off.

"I'm afraid I've just been stalling for time, Captain," she gasped, her hands scrabbling uselessly at the ground. "The train with your beloved _Beatrice_ on it should be halfway to the continent by now."

Bucky's finger twitched on the trigger as Lorraine bit down hard on something, a triumphant expression briefly crossing her face. And too late, Steve remembered what Kruger had done.

"Hail—" Lorraine began, but Bucky had figured it out at the same time as Steve: he pulled the trigger before she could get the final word out. The ensuing shot echoed throughout the tunnel, and Lorraine's head lolled back as her body went limp, a single drop of blood glistening on her forehead where the bullet had entered her skull. Her lifeless blue eyes stared up at them; Steve imagined he could still see a sneer on her face.

"I wanted to be the one to kill her," Bucky said flatly after a pause, correctly guessing what Steve hadn't yet articulated. His voice and eyes were hard. An unsettling sensation washed over Steve as he stared at his best friend; he suddenly felt as if they were back in Indiana, a year and a half ago, and Bucky had just shot a helpless doe between the eyes.

"I know," Steve said a moment later. The air was thick with tension. He forced himself to look down at Lorraine's body. "Listen, we need to get back to headquarters. She was right—we're not going to find Beatrice this way. But we _are_ going after her."

Bucky gave a tight, controlled nod, his face unreadable. Steve bent down and picked up one of Lorraine's arms, slinging it over his shoulders. He tried very hard not to think of the way she had forced herself upon him that day in Phillips' office, or the way Peggy had looked when she'd caught them. Bucky grabbed Lorraine's other arm and followed Steve's lead, so that both men carried the corpse between them. They didn't speak another word for the remainder of the trip.

* * *

The Schnellzug EB912 was the fastest train in Europe, powered by the Tesseract itself, and was Johann Schmidt's preferred method of transportation. He had lent it to Zola so that the doctor would be able to make a quick getaway after the American defector stole the Norn Stone from right under the SSR's nose. However, not only did Zola get the stone, one of his only two successful human experiments was returned to him. The doctor wore a vindictive grin as he spoke to Schmidt over the telephone, telling him of Hydra's newest victory. The flat countryside began to give way to snowy mountains as the train sped through the continent to Schmidt's last remaining stronghold.

"Herr Schmidt," Zola began eagerly, turning the sparkling Norn Stone over in his stubby fingers. "I have the girl and the stone. I am told that we are due at the base by midnight."

"Good, good." Schmidt's answering reply was satisfied. "I am impressed, Arnim. Has the stone revealed its secrets to you?"

"Er, I am afraid not," Zola admitted. "But I was informed that it may have some sort of enchantment placed upon it that prohibits its use by anyone other than the Romanov family. I have confidence you will be able to unlock its powers."

"Indeed I shall," replied Schmidt, his voice smooth and even. "And what of the Tesseract?"

Zola paused, turning his head to look over at the glowing cube, which was securely locked in a box through which its trademark glow was still visible. Just below it was Beatrice, lying on a makeshift gurney, being kept unconscious now through a sedative that was administered through her arm—she could remain comatose for days if she was monitored. "It is right here," he answered. "But I find myself suddenly struck with an idea."

"Yes?"

Zola's eyes flickered between the box containing the Tesseract and the unconscious girl. "I have always longed to experiment on a human with it," he admitted. "But all of my subjects thus far have been unable to withstand the cube's energy. I am wondering if perhaps experimenting on an already enhanced human will incite different results."

A short laugh issued from the telephone. "I admire the way you think, Doctor Zola," Schmidt said. "I trust that you are able to begin right away."

"Of course," Zola assured him, and after he and Schmidt exchanged a brief "Hail Hydra", he put down the telephone and walked over to examine his new subject.


	28. XXVIII

When Beatrice was a child, she had developed the habit of listening at doors—both for the thrill of doing something forbidden and in hopes she would overhear a particularly interesting conversation. Most of the time, however, the conversations she heard would be dull, or they would be about money or politics or something else she didn't quite understand.

One particular incident, however, had always stuck in her mind. She couldn't have been more than eight years old, and her father had invited several of his friends from the Navy Yard over to their flat. Thinking back on it, Beatrice wondered if George Barnes had been among them. The men there that night had all served with John in the Great War, she remembered—she'd been expressly forbidden from disturbing them, as their conversation wasn't suitable for a child (especially a girl) to hear. So she'd stayed with Elena in the kitchen while the men took over the parlor.

The walls were thin, though, and their raucous laughter could easily be heard, sparking Beatrice's curiosity. Elena had been trying to teach her to sew—a futile effort—and by some miracle she'd fallen asleep after making supper, her head tilted to the side and a half-finished scarf on the table. Sensing her opportunity, Beatrice had tiptoed out of the kitchen and pressed her ear against the door to the parlor, straining to hear the conversation.

She'd recognized her father's voice instantly, but her fascination quickly turned to horror when she heard what he was saying. He was telling a war story, and was already quite inebriated judging by his slurred sentences.

From what Beatrice could piece together, he had once come across a German soldier in the trenches who was dying of what he'd called "consumption", though she now knew it was tuberculosis. But consumption was a more accurate word: according to John, the soldier had nearly wasted away, his skin stretched so tightly that his bones were plainly visible. He could barely move and when he spoke he coughed blood. He was so emaciated and close to death that maggots had already begun to take host in his body, feeding on his flesh. He'd begged her father to kill him, which John did.

Beatrice had been so horrified by the story that she'd let out an involuntary gasp and clapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late. John had already opened the door and discovered her; he'd sent her away and threatened to box her ears, but she had been so traumatized by the story she'd had nightmares about flesh-eating maggots for months, and never eavesdropped again.

She could think of no worse fate than being consumed from the inside out—watching herself slowly die and being powerless to stop it.

So of course it figured that it would actually happen to her.

Beatrice came to hazily, with only a vague sense of the moments immediately preceding her unconsciousness. It had something to do with Ivan, she knew—the Norn Stone?—and Hydra.

Someone made a displeased noise from beside her, and Beatrice slowly turned her head—she couldn't quite move anything else—to see Arnim Zola standing over her, attaching electrodes to her arm. Her sleeve was rolled up to her elbow, a tube inserted in her arm feeding a clear liquid into her veins. They were also in a train, judging from the scenery flashing by through a small window and the rocking motion under her.

Beatrice figured this all out very fast, but the realization that she had been captured by Hydra— _again_ —sent waves of terror racing through her. She was trapped, like a frog waiting to be dissected, her limbs tied down. There was no using her strength to break free this time: Zola must have kept her carefully sedated, drifting on the edge of consciousness but still paralyzed—and there was no Bucky and Steve to save her.

Oh God,  _Bucky._ Beatrice had no idea how much time had passed since she'd confronted Lorraine, but he would have been frantic when she failed to return. What about Ivan? What had happened to Lorraine and the Norn Stone?

"The serum is beginning to fight the sedative," Zola was saying to her, as casually as if he was dictating a laboratory report. "Your body is growing resistant to the morphine after prolonged exposure. I am afraid you will have to remain conscious for this, Fräulein."

Beatrice couldn't twitch a single finger in response. Whatever burst of strength she'd had to turn her head had disappeared. She prayed that she would fall into oblivion again, but her mind stayed hovering just above the surface no matter how hard she tried to push it under. Whatever Zola was planning to do to her, she knew for certain she didn't want to be awake for it.

After he'd removed the tube from her arm, he brought forth a small metal case, the size of a breadbox, the edges of which were glowing slightly from something luminescent within. Beatrice was forced to watch, immobile, as Zola flipped open the box with a pleased smile. A dull blue glow illuminated his face, reflecting off his round glasses. He slowly turned the case around so that she could see it—the cube was smaller than she'd expected, small enough that she could cup it in her hands. The light emanating from its core was like nothing Beatrice had ever seen; her eyes stung as if she was staring at the sun. Something was swirling in its depths—a low hum radiated from it, as if it was alive. But it wasn't entirely unfamiliar to her: she had seen the same color, the same crackling electricity, once before. She could almost still feel the phantom pain in her shoulder where the Hydra soldier's blaster had knocked her out and disintegrated the SSR's weapons.

 _The Tesseract,_ she thought fuzzily. Hydra's secret weapon, the thing Schmidt had been searching for. Ivan had said it was powerful enough to wipe out entire planets. For it to be in the hands of Hydra was disastrous. But here Beatrice was, staring right at it, and there was absolutely nothing she could do.

Her mind was spinning frantically, like a hamster in a wheel, trying desperately to force her body to move. The rattling of the train did nothing to calm her stomach, which was twisting itself into painful knots. She could only stare blankly up at the roof, unable to move anything except her eyes. And she realized, with a final sickening jolt, that whatever Zola was planning to do to her did not necessarily mean she had to be alive for it. There were plenty of experiments he could do with a corpse. Perhaps he wanted to test just how long a human could stay alive when exposed to the Tesseract's energy—

Beatrice's worst fears were only confirmed when Zola placed the box on a shelf that jutted out from the wall above her head and rechecked the placement of the electrodes, which had been placed on every one of her pulse points through which the major arteries pumped blood through her veins. It was basic medical knowledge—what she'd learned during her first  _day_ of training as an army nurse—and yet she wished she didn't know exactly what Zola was planning to do. She wished that she was ignorant of what was about to happen to her.

Satisfied that she was bound and utterly helpless, Zola scribbled something in his notebook and went over to the window to close the curtains, casting the compartment in total darkness aside from the faintly glowing Tesseract. Without another word to her, he exited the compartment, the door sliding shut behind him. The sound of the lock clicking into place sounded like the safety being pulled off a gun.

Beatrice wasn't sure how long she lay there, terrified and alone, waiting to die. There was a dull thump above her, as if something had landed on the train, but as the minutes ticked by the hope slowly began to drain out of her.

And then the Tesseract suddenly came to life with a burst of blinding light, and Beatrice felt herself explode in a blast of energy. Her body was no longer a prison, because she didn't  _have_ a body anymore. White-hot pain slashed through her insides, and death was not black as she had always imagined—it was  _blue_ , blinding agony that seared through her skin, ripping her apart—Schmidt's torture had been floating on a bed of feathers compared to this—she would have done that a thousand times over instead. The morphine pinning her down had finally weakened, and she was writhing around on the cot, screaming, her throat raw—

The pain didn't recede slowly, but vanished as quickly as it started, leaving her gasping and breathless. Her brain didn't know how to respond to the sudden absence of pain, and she stayed curled up in a ball, her arms wrapped around herself and tears slipping out from behind her closed eyelids. If Zola's first experiment had involved the slow buildup of pain until she could no longer stand it, this was akin to being thrown directly into a pit of lava. Shudders were still wracking her entire body as if she had been electrocuted.

At some point she found she could move again, and she rolled over to retch on the floor, but there was nothing in her stomach. The edges of her vision were tinged blue, and she didn't even have the strength to fight when Zola reappeared in the compartment, his small eyes alight with excitement as he regarded her. "Remarkable," he breathed. "The subject has survived the initial procedure."

 _Initial procedure?_ Beatrice thought. She felt odd, like she'd had one too many drinks. The numbness after the pain was beginning to fade, replaced by a tingling across her skin that was strongest in her hands. She felt lightheaded, dazed, and barely flinched when a loud, blaring alarm sounded right above her head.

A look of panic flashed across Zola's face. He immediately hurried out of the compartment without another glance at Beatrice, barking orders in German to the other Hydra agents on the train.

She forced herself to move, pushing herself up onto her elbows and into a sitting position. Unfortunately, she had chosen the wrong moment to do so: the train lurched to a sudden, grinding halt, brakes screeching, and Beatrice was thrown forward, tumbling across the floor until her head smashed into the opposite wall. She barely stifled a groan of pain and reached up a hand to comb her fingers through her matted hair, gingerly searching for the wound. Her fingers came away sticky with blood.

The compartment door slid aside with a deafening bang, and Beatrice automatically flinched, expecting Zola. But when a familiar face immediately rushed over to her, she could only stare up at him, frozen, sure it was a trap. "Gabe?" she asked hoarsely. Her voice cracked on the single syllable, as if she hadn't spoken in days.

He was dressed in his Howling Commandos' uniform, a rifle at his side, but when he took in Beatrice's current state he quickly knelt down, holding a hand out to her. "Thank God you're all right," he said as he pulled her up to a standing position, his mouth set in a worried line.  _"Are_ you all right?"

"Y—yes, I think so," Beatrice said. She swallowed hard, her eyes landing on the glowing Tesseract. Her stomach rolled, and she had the sudden urge to hurl it out of the window as far as she could. "What are you doing here?"

Gabe frowned, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "We came to find you," he replied. "When Agent Romanov realized you were missing, he went straight to Colonel Phillips. We managed to track the secretary to King's Cross and monitored the outgoing transmission until we found this train."

Beatrice slowly shook her head, ignoring the throbbing that came with it. "Lorraine," she muttered. "What happened to her?"

"She's dead," Gabe said bluntly. "Steve and Bucky caught up to her before she could escape."

Ignoring the way her heart skipped a painful beat at the mention of their names, Beatrice said urgently, "You need to find Zola! He's here—"

But no further explanation was needed: before she could even finish her sentence, a muffled gunshot rang throughout the compartment, and Zola's face filled the window of the sliding door, brandishing a pistol.

Gabe swore loudly. "Stay here," he ordered, and strode over to the door, pulling out his rifle as he did. But Beatrice knew it was dangerous to stay in one place, and besides, she wanted to put as much distance between herself and the Tesseract as possible. After casting a furtive glance in the direction Gabe had disappeared, where she could hear machine gun fire, she dropped to her hands and knees again and slipped through the opposite door, which appeared to lead into a storage compartment. The howling wind whipped around her as she ducked behind a shelf, suddenly wishing she'd thought to grab a weapon. It was freezing cold; surely there had to be an open door close by.

Beatrice crept forward, sucking in a sharp breath when she saw the source of the fresh air. The culprit wasn't an open door at all: rather, an enormous chunk had been torn right off the side of the train, a gaping hole large enough for several people to fit through. Snow was blowing into the compartment, and in the distance Beatrice could see mountain peaks jutting into the sky. But her attention was caught on the man kneeling in front of the opening, his blond hair and colorful uniform streaked with dirt.

"Steve," she breathed, and began to run to him. He slowly turned his head up to look at her, and Beatrice stopped dead in her tracks, her blood running cold when she saw the expression on his face.

She had never seen such a look of horrified disbelief on anyone before, and knew it would be burned into her mind for the rest of her life. Steve was breathing shallowly, quick short pants as if it physically pained him to breathe any deeper. His eyes were wide and red, his mouth twisted into shock, tears staining his face. He seemed barely to even register her presence—he looked close to vomiting, his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his gloves looked about to tear.

Beatrice immediately dropped down in front of him, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder. "Steve," she whispered again. He looked so utterly defeated that it terrified her. "What happened?"

His blue eyes finally focused on hers, and he sagged even more, as if all the air had been sucked out of him. "Beatrice," he croaked; it seemed an effort to even say her name. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Gabe told me you and Bucky were here."

Steve visibly winced at the mention of Bucky's name, and Beatrice's heart dropped into her stomach. His eyes flickered down to the bracelet on her wrist, the bracelet she'd never taken off since Bucky had given it to her on the day she left for Europe. "I…it's my fault," he said hoarsely. His gaze turned haunted, and Beatrice suddenly knew what he was going to say next. There was only one thing on Earth that would cause him to look that way. "Beatrice…he's gone. He fell off the train. I couldn't save him in time. I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracked on the final word, and he lowered his head, suppressing a sob.

Beatrice's entire body had gone numb. She saw Steve's grief, knew he was drowning in it, but found she couldn't say a single comforting word. "No," she said, and began to shake her head mechanically, as if her denial would somehow change the outcome. "No, it's not possible. He couldn't have—" She gulped and swallowed hard, staring out the hole that had destroyed the compartment like a gaping wound. The train was stopped on the edge of a sheer cliff, a near-vertical drop punctuated by dozens of rocks jutting out below. She could see nothing but the blinding white of snow, broken only by a dark, frozen river miles below in the ravine. "He's got to be down there," she said desperately. "He could have survived."

"I saw him fall," Steve said. His voice wavered, and he dragged a hand across his face. He seemed barely able to move, like an old man. "No one could have survived that. Not even me."

But Beatrice refused to believe him. There was always a chance. If what Zola had done to him was the same as what he had done to her, Bucky had the Hydra version of the super-soldier serum. He might not have been killed by the initial impact. Some logical part of Beatrice's mind knew that this was grasping at straws, but she pushed the thought away. "We have to find him," she said, stumbling over to the window and leaning out to survey the terrain. It would be a steep climb to the bottom, but she was sure it could be done.

The sound of a scuffle behind them barely registered in Beatrice's perception, but Steve's attention was diverted by the appearance of Gabe, who held Zola tightly by the arm and was pointing the doctor's own pistol at his head. "I got him," Gabe said triumphantly. "Bastard put up a fight, too."

But Steve seemed barely to notice Zola. "Gabe," he began wearily. "Bucky's gone." Beatrice knew him well enough to see him gather himself up, even out his expression so that he didn't show weakness in front of Zola. She watched Steve disappear behind the mask of Captain America, only the slight trembling of his hands a betrayal to the depth of his emotions.

Gabe's eyes widened. "What?" he asked, shock crossing his face, but Beatrice was looking at Zola. The doctor didn't outwardly react, but she could see his lips twitch upward in a barely-there smirk.

A livid rage the likes of which she had never felt before seized Beatrice, and before she knew what she was doing she had already launched herself at Zola, her hands closing around his throat and his glasses knocked askew. His eyes immediately began to water as she increased her grip, feeling his bones about to crack under her fingers—

And then Steve pulled her off of Zola, his arms wrapped tightly around her as she struggled and fought against him. "Beatrice,  _don't,"_ he grunted; it gave her a savage pleasure to know that he had to use his enhanced strength to hold her back. "He has valuable information about Hydra."

Beatrice glared daggers at Zola, snarling; Gabe had steadied him, but the doctor was still wheezing and there were marks on his neck where her hands had been. Still, his smirk hadn't lessened a bit—in fact, it had only widened knowing that he would be kept alive by the SSR, at least until they had what they wanted.

When she couldn't stand to look at his smug face anymore—she had never despised anyone so much, including Schmidt himself—she turned to Steve. "Let me go," she insisted, trying to push him away. When his grip didn't loosen one bit, she sighed and reluctantly ceased her struggles. "I promise not to do anything." It was a sign of Steve's trust in her that he warily relaxed his hold, though his hand still loosely encircled her upper arm.

"I'll see what I can get out of him," Gabe said, and began to drag Zola away, though it was clearly an excuse for separating him and Beatrice. "I sent a distress signal to Dugan—they should be arriving soon."

"Thank you, Gabe," Steve said quietly. The other man nodded, casting a worried look at Beatrice, and led Zola away, who went unnaturally quietly. He hadn't said a single word, not even when Beatrice had been trying to choke him, and that unsettled her more than anything.

When they had disappeared, leaving Beatrice and Steve alone again, she twisted around to stare earnestly up at him. "We have to find Bucky," she repeated. Didn't he understand how little time they had? With every second that passed, he could be in even more danger.

A shadow crossed Steve's face, and she saw his mask waver. Suddenly he was looking down at her with a bright blue gaze that was all Steve's, with no trace of the steady confidence of Captain America. "It's too late," he said. "Too dangerous. We wouldn't be able to find anything, not in this storm. He—he wouldn't want us to risk our lives trying to find his body." He suddenly looked away from Beatrice, his jaw working furiously. She felt her eyes fill with tears and a choking panic rose in her chest.

"This is all my fault," she whispered, gritting her teeth and staring down at the floor. "If I hadn't gotten captured—"

"It's not your fault, Beatrice," Steve said gently. "He— _we_ —would have come after you no matter what. All Bucky cared about was that you were safe."

She covered her mouth with her hand, barely stifling the cry that escaped her. Steve looked like a little boy again, lost and utterly broken, before hesitantly reaching out to her again, and this time Beatrice didn't resist. The others would arrive soon, but this was their private moment to grieve together. She buried her face in Steve's chest, and her protests became something like heaving sobs.

* * *

"You need to eat something, Beatrice."

Ivan knelt down in front of her, holding out a mug of steaming cocoa. It wasn't the first time he had offered her food, and it wasn't the first time she had refused.

"No," Beatrice said stubbornly, turning her head just as the wind changed direction, earning herself a faceful of snow. Had it been under any other circumstances, she would have laughed.

Ivan sighed, his breath puffing out in a white cloud. He didn't seem to have the energy to argue with her anymore—he hadn't stopped apologizing since they'd met again, insisting that it was his fault Beatrice had been overpowered by Lorraine and smuggled onto the Hydra train. Nor did she have the energy to continue telling him that it had been her choice to do so in the first place.

They were at a makeshift camp not far from the train, waiting for the blizzard to clear so that Howard could safely fly in and bring them back to London. The group assigned to the raid had been small, while the rest of the SSR, including Peggy Carter, had remained behind. All of the Howling Commandos were present, of course, but Phillips and Ivan had apparently also insisted on coming along.

They had gotten back the Norn Stone, but lost the chance to retrieve the Tesseract, as one of Zola's guards had managed to avoid capture and escape with it. Beatrice supposed that was partly her fault for leaving it alone, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She couldn't bring herself to care about anything. She hadn't told anyone about Zola's experiment with the Tesseract—she wouldn't be able to stand Phillips' probing questions, didn't want to hear his exasperation with her— _"So, Hartley, you decided to become a lab rat again"_ —and, besides, she didn't feel any different than she did before, at least not physically: the change certainly wasn't as drastic as the one after the serum. The tingling in her extremities still hadn't faded, but that could easily be explained by the cold. She'd refused the offer of a warmer coat and gloves, a decision she was beginning to regret.

Her shock still hadn't quite abated—instead, she was clinging onto the desperate hope that Bucky was still alive; she wouldn't be able to bear anything else. She thought of the woman she had seen so long ago on Christmas Day, the one in the tenement building across from Steve's, receiving notice that her sweetheart had been killed in action. Never had Beatrice imagined the same situation would happen to her years later. What had the woman done? Had she tried to move on with her life, keep her head held high? Or had she begun chasing ghosts, desperate to retain a past that had slipped from her grasp in the blink of an eye?

Beatrice raised her head and looked over at Steve. Steve, who was standing with his back straight and speaking to the Commandos in an even tone, discussing their next strategy. Steve, who couldn't afford to break under the pressure, under the weight of the SSR's expectations for him. He had to go on. Only Beatrice could hear the stark loneliness in his voice, in the set of his jaw. Occasionally he would glance to the left, as if looking for Bucky, before remembering. It hurt Beatrice even more to look at him, to watch his internal struggle.

But oughtn't she to do the same? To mourn her fiancé privately and go back to the way things had been before, to return to her duties as an army nurse and hopefully prevent the death of more soldiers who might be someone else's fiancé? Compared to Steve, who had known Bucky for nearly his entire life, Beatrice had only known him for two years. What right did she have to shut everyone else out?

Her gaze moved from Steve to Zola, who was in handcuffs being interrogated by Phillips; as far as Beatrice could tell, he still hadn't spoken—refusing to reveal anything in case Schmidt sent soldiers to rescue him. She guessed Phillips would try a different tactic once they were back in England. A sadistic part of her wanted to be the one to face him, to make him suffer for what he had done to her and Bucky. She felt her muscles tense at the thought.

Ivan shifted from where he was still standing beside her, reaching for something in the depths of his overcoat. He cleared his throat and held out a folded piece of paper to Beatrice. "Sergeant Barnes wanted me to give this to you in case something happened to him," he told her. "I believe it is several months old. I have not read it myself, but please do not let yourself fall too far into grief, Beatrice. That is not what he would have wanted for you."

Beatrice bit her tongue instead of snapping back a retort that she  _knew_  Bucky wouldn't want her to grieve over him, that she was sick of everyone telling her that as if she hadn't known him better than they had. But she knew Ivan's intentions were good, so she kept quiet and waited until he had left her alone to read it before she tore into the letter, her heart skipping a beat when she saw Bucky's handwriting:

_Rosie,_

_You know what, I was supposed to write this letter months ago, back before we even started this mission. I refused to do it, maybe because I thought it would be like hammering the final nail into the coffin. But I swear, Rosie, we were ambushed today at Vaduz, and I was staring down the barrel of a gun for five seconds before I killed the Hydra bastard. Don't worry—we all made it out this time, although Falsworth swears his mustache will never be the same again. Listen, my point is that I know I'm not gonna live forever, and I could be killed any day—if you're reading this, I_ am  _dead—and so this is my last goodbye to you. Of course it was Steve who suggested writing letters to everyone we care about to be given to them in the event of our deaths. I'm not Keats or whoever that poet is Steve pretends he doesn't read. All I can do is hope that you'll never need to read this._

_Look, I've always hated writing letters. But I don't have very many people that I care about left in the world. I'm only writing to you, Steve, and Becca. (I know Steve's writing a letter to you, too, but I'll be damned if I know what it says). Maybe if we all make it out of this somehow, after the war, we can open them up and read them anyway. I would have said all of this to you one day, doll, but since I can't, this is the next best thing._

_Sometimes I wonder if I just imagined everything that happened when we were locked up together, that the whole thing was just a hallucination. It wouldn't be the first time. But then I'll read your letters and remember that it was real, all of it. That's the only thing I have right now, you know. I wouldn't care so much if I ended up bleeding out on a field in some European country if it wasn't for you. The other guys think I'm pining over you, but Steve's pining over Agent Carter, so we'll call it even. Maybe I am pining. I hate even admitting it—it's a good thing I'll be dead before you read this._

_I don't even remember what I was trying to say anymore. I've wasted two whole sheets of paper and I haven't said anything at all. Just—don't pine over me, Rosie. It's only acceptable to do that when the other person is alive. Survive this damn war, go back home, and keep an eye on Steve for me, no matter what he says. Marry a nice guy someday—I promise I won't be mad. Just please be happy. Can you do that for me, Rosie?_

_God, I love you so much. Even if I lived the rest of my life with you until we're both old and gray, it still wouldn't be long enough. I'm lucky to have had as much time with you as I did. And I don't care how selfish this sounds: please don't forget about me. Keep this letter and don't forget. I don't think I'd be able to stand it if you did._

_And here's the last thing: I'm not gonna say goodbye to you. You know I'm not religious, but it would be stupid of me to assume that we're never going to see each other again. Maybe there is some sort of life after this, and maybe we'll both end up there. Wherever "there" is, I'll be waiting for you._

_Bucky_

Beatrice started to cry again halfway through the letter, and had to pause and swallow the lump in her throat before she could finish it. She read it through three times, her eyes tracing the familiar curve of the letters, the ink often scratched out and blotted, as if he had poured his heart out and then worried it hadn't been good enough. She felt as if her own heart was about to burst, each word piercing into her like a knife. And Beatrice imagined Bucky sprawled at the bottom of the ravine, alone and slowly dying, and the bleakness of the image spurred her into desperate action.

She straightened up from the rock she'd been leaning against and brushed the snow from her clothes, buttoning up her coat to her chin. Her gaze traveled to Steve again, wanting him to join her, but there was no way he would agree to it. For one thing, he was too valuable to the SSR, and he had accepted that they wouldn't be able to find Bucky, alive or not, and the chance that he had been killed on impact was far greater than the risks they would take searching for him—at least according to Phillips. But they weren't personally responsible for Bucky's fall, no matter how many times Steve and Ivan insisted that they were. No, the blame rested squarely on Beatrice's shoulders. It had been her who accepted the mission, her who had lost against Lorraine, her who had taken too long after recovering from the Tesseract instead of trying to find Zola earlier. So it had to be her who searched for him.

Beatrice waited until nobody was paying her any mind before stealing over to the emergency supply crates and rooting around until she found a flashlight. She estimated that, if all went well, she could be back before nightfall—and in time for Howard's return. It would take her a couple of hours to traverse the mountains until she reached the ravine where Bucky had fallen, and she would likely spend several more hours looking for him. The snow would completely bury everything if she waited any longer.

After stuffing a pack of flares into her pockets, she glanced surreptitiously around to make sure no one saw what she was doing before pulling up the hood of her coat and beginning to forge a path up the mountain. The snowdrifts were so high that she lost sight of the camp within minutes, and her footprints were immediately covered by the snow. The radio in her hand crackled to life, but she ignored its beeping.

It was long, hard work climbing up the rest of the mountain, soon becoming an effort just to put one foot in front of the other. The blowing snow obscured everything farther than five feet ahead—she'd had to wrap her scarf around her face so that only her eyes were uncovered. Only the thought of Bucky kept her going, and the chance that he was suffering even more than her. If it hadn't been for the serum, Beatrice thought, she would have collapsed long ago. No ordinary human could brave this for longer than half an hour. Perhaps there was something to thank Zola for, after all.

She knew she had nearly reached the top when the air began to grow thinner. She was breathing harder than normal, and was forced to stop and brace her hands against her knees, gasping. Her head spun crazily.  _I'm almost there,_ she thought dizzily.  _Getting down will be easier._

And still it was the thought of Bucky that carried her forward, even when her face began to grow numb under the layers of clothing and she could barely breathe. Beatrice gingerly took a step forward, blind, and tested the weight of a rocky outcrop under her feet. Descending the mountain may have been physically easier than climbing it, but it was much slower work than she had expected.

The rock held the weight of one foot, and she carefully lowered herself onto it, balancing precariously as she felt around for the safest way down. Avalanches were her main concern now; the risk of one happening during a storm was far greater than when the skies were clear. She likely would have little to no warning before one hit, with nowhere to take shelter—all she could do was hope that her luck would hold.

Beatrice dropped to the ground again, landing in a crouch—but she hadn't prepared for the layer of ice hidden under the snow. Her feet scrabbled for purchase as she cartwheeled wildly, grabbing for the rock; but already loose from her weight, it crumbled under her fingertips and she fell to the ground with a panicked yelp, unable to stop her momentum as she tumbled head over heels down the steep edge, rocks digging into her sides as she rolled over and over, sending a spray of snow into the air.

When she finally came to a painful stop, her entire body was covered in bruises and she could barely move. Beatrice spat out a mouthful of snow and tried to turn her head, but the stab of pain that followed nearly caused her to black out. She fell back onto her side, panting. She had failed. She had failed to save Bucky, and even if the storm cleared she didn't have the strength to climb the mountain again. Worst of all, she had landed on her radio, snapping it in half and leaving her unable to send out a distress signal.

But she did still have the flares.

It took all of her remaining strength to reach into her pocket and pull one out, fumbling with the cap with trembling fingers. It immediately began to smoke, and Beatrice tossed it away, but it only stopped rolling a dozen feet from her. She braced herself as the spark launched into the air, a sizzling red band climbing higher and higher until it exploded in a bright blast of smoke, the sound echoing around the mountains. She prayed the others would be able to see it through the whirling snow.

She waited for what felt like hours, her heart thundering—and then, after an agonizing time, she heard voices in the distance. Relief flooded her body like the warmth of a fire. Beatrice could only hope she was visible.

The voices steadily grew closer, but it didn't take long before it became clear there was something very wrong. She didn't recognize them at all, and worse, they were speaking Russian.

Someone barked harshly at her, but she didn't understand a word. Beatrice blinked slowly as several faces hovered above her, unfamiliar men who were bundled up so tightly against the cold in fur coats and ushanka hats that their eyes weren't even visible. And all had their weapons pointed directly at her.

It wasn't the SSR at all, but a group of Soviet soldiers. Beatrice had no way of communicating with them; she wasn't even sure she was able to speak.

The one who had snapped at her repeated the same question, this time with something menacing in his voice. When Beatrice still didn't respond, he made an angry noise and prodded her with the tip of his boot, turning her over. The movement sent shockwaves of pain through her, and she struggled to push herself up, her arms shaking madly, but she barely lasted five seconds before her muscles gave out and she collapsed onto the ground again, her cheek pressed against the snow. Her eyes drifted closed, and she knew no more.


	29. XXIX

**1955**

**Siberia**

The laboratory hidden in the depths of the U.S.S.R.'s Hydra compound was normally as silent as a tomb and nearly empty. The concrete walls built into the sprawling underground base effectively sealed off any unwanted noises, even from the very next room, allowing the few remaining scientists to go about their work in peace. The fortress had largely been abandoned since the end of the war, but the researchers who were left dedicated their entire lives to rebuilding Hydra to its former glory.

Today, however, the laboratory was bustling with activity. Dozens of doctors and scientists hurried about, making sure everything was progressing smoothly for their current visitor. They had been preparing for this day for years, and were determined to make sure not a toe was out of line. After all, this was their last hope.

"He is in good condition, I trust?" Arnim Zola asked, fixing the doctor in front of him with a cold stare. Ten years spent in captivity had aged him, and he walked with a slight stoop, but his eyes were still alight with intelligence. He was confident that S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't be able to trace him here. He had worked tirelessly to convince them that he had fully renounced his previous ways.

"Yes, Herr Zola," the doctor replied, moving aside to show him the patient in question, who had successfully been awakened from cryosleep the previous day. "The subject's vital signs are stable; however, he does have a tendency to become…aggressive when conscious. I recommend constant sedation until the problem is resolved."

Zola stepped forward to examine the man lying on the gurney in the middle of the laboratory. He was heavily anesthetized, kept under with a tranquilizer that was made for use on large animals—nothing else had worked on him. A sheet was pulled up to his waist, and there was nothing but a bloody stump where his left arm had once been.

"Sergeant Barnes," Zola mused, a slow smile spreading across his face. He observed the soldier for another moment before turning to the doctor. "And you say he was found like this?"

"We have cauterized the wound and made another clean incision, but yes. The cryofreezing process was more successful than even I imagined. It is as if not a day has passed since his body was recovered." Pride colored the doctor's voice. "Truly, we have perfected cryostasis."

Zola was nodding in approval. "Your contributions will not be overlooked, General Karpov. Have you made any progress on the prototype, by any chance?"

"As a matter of fact, we have." Karpov beckoned for another scientist to come forward with his newest design, holding it out for Zola to inspect. It was a carefully designed and intricately built metal arm, made with vibranium taken straight from Wakanda. Even now without an owner, its gears whirred and hummed as if it was alive. It represented the very best of Hydra's engineering, made to mimic the look and feel of a human arm to its owner—only infinitely stronger. A bright red star was painted on the shoulder, a symbol of Russia's involvement in the organization.

Zola hummed in agreement. "This will serve us well, I think," he said, turning it over; the metal gleamed under the harsh glare of the overhead lights. "When can it be installed?"

"Whenever you wish, Herr Zola," said Karpov, inclining his head respectfully. "We can begin the procedure right away. I hope this soldier will be of use to Hydra."

A pleased expression dawned on Zola's face, and he turned around to look at the soldier in question again. This time there was no mistaking the gleam of triumph in his eyes.

"Oh, he will be."

* * *

But James Barnes was not Hydra's only successful subject. Situated in the opposite corner of the laboratory was another empty cryotube. Lying on a gurney similar to Barnes's, her face holding a faint blue tinge, was a woman who could be no older than twenty-five. She looked as if she belonged in a morgue rather than a laboratory.

"This is the second American we retrieved," Karpov told Zola, clasping his hands behind his back as he surveyed her. "Unfortunately, we could not find any further identification."

"Luckily, I am familiar with Nurse Hartley," Zola said, slowly circling the table as he examined her. "Were she and Sergeant Barnes found together?"

Karpov shook his head. "She was about a mile from the gorge, but judging by her tracks she was heading in that direction. He was in worse condition than she was, which leads me to believe he had been there longer."

"Their previous attachment may provoke some difficulties, I fear," Zola muttered, almost to himself. "Has she been awoken yet?"

"Not yet," said Karpov. His hand hovered over the saline drip keeping her unconscious. "Would you care for us to do so?"

Zola paused, considering, before his curiosity won out and he nodded. "You may." But he gestured at Karpov to pause. "The bracelet on her wrist. Take it."

The general nodded and unfastened the clasp, lifting the bracelet up for Zola to inspect. He took it and examined it for a moment before closing his stubby fingers around the chain and dropping it into his pocket. "When she wakes, wipe her," he told Karpov, who wasted no time in removing the intravenous needle from the side of her neck. Now that her body temperature had stabilized, it wouldn't take long for her to awaken.

Zola and Karpov watched with clinical interest as the woman's pulse quickened and her eyes slowly opened, groggily taking in her surroundings. As soon as her gaze landed on Zola, her expression twisted into one of utmost loathing, but she was too weak to attack him. "Where are the others?" she growled. "They had you trapped."

Zola raised his eyebrows. "I am afraid you are the one who is trapped, Fräulein. And you have been trapped for quite a while." He tilted his head in consideration. "Ten years, in fact. You see, you were fortunate enough to be discovered by a group of loyal Hydra soldiers who happened to be quite advanced in the science of cryostasis."

She stared at him, uncomprehending, before her head whipped around to take in the empty cryotube and the doctors that surrounded her, and snarled a string of curses that impressed even Karpov. Zola, sensing what was about to happen, gestured for a nearby doctor to inject her again. Seconds after the needle pierced her skin, she went limp, her head lolling back onto the gurney.

Zola gave a displeased sigh as he watched her breathing even out again. "Perhaps she should have been wiped first," he mused.

When her vitals had been re-evaluated and approved, Karpov went to work on preparing the procedure. The machine was Zola's pride and joy—although Karpov and Johann Fennhoff had both contributed ideas and designs, Zola preferred to take the majority of the credit. Its first test subjects, traitors and prisoners of the Soviet Union, had finished their tests with complete compliance, even going so far as to become spies _for_ the U.S.S.R. Of course, repeated wipes would make the results even more effective, but Zola did not need to concern himself with that at the moment, not when he had both Barnes and Hartley at his disposal. He watched with growing excitement as Karpov fitted the girl's head with the appropriate pieces, propping her up into a sitting position.

"You may proceed when ready, General," Zola said. Karpov moved to flip a switch on the nearby monitor, and electricity immediately began to crackle around the headpieces as the machine began the wiping process. This time Zola couldn't contain his smile.

But it quickly faded from his face as, without warning, a jolt of blue fire streaked across the girl's face and straight into the mechanism holding her down. The machine ground to a stop and smoke issued faintly from it as the tendrils of blue fire slowly faded, freeing her of its own accord.

"Sir, the gamma radiation is spiking," a doctor called across the room. "This is an unknown element—"

"The Tesseract's energy is protecting her," Zola breathed, and reached for his notebook to document his findings. "It still lingers in her blood."

"Pardon me?" Karpov asked incredulously. He looked absolutely livid at the machine's failure.

Zola, however, remained calm. "Keep her on ice," he ordered Karpov. "Sergeant Barnes may be more valuable to us at the moment, but I have experimented more thoroughly on her. I shall have to undertake a closer study to see the true results of my experiment. I do not wish to see my efforts go to waste—I am sure you understand."

A muscle jumped in Karpov's jaw, but he gave a tight nod. "Of course, Doctor."

Zola's pen scribbled feverishly across the pages of his notebook as he recounted the outcome of the failed wipe. "The subjects must not be permitted to know of each other's presence," he said, vaguely waving his hand in the direction of the other cryotube. "I have the utmost confidence that Fennhoff's technology will be effective on Sergeant Barnes, but it is wise not to allow the girl to see him."

Only years of rigorous training and discipline as one of the Soviet army's top generals kept Karpov from grabbing Zola by the shoulder and shaking him, demanding that he see sense. Instead, he gave another stiff nod and reluctantly followed his orders.


	30. XXX

**1967**

**Moscow, Russia**

To an outsider, the old man hobbling through the airport didn't look out of the ordinary, nor did the young man who accompanied him. Both possessed the same tall, athletic build and striking combination of red hair—or what had once been red hair in the elderly man's case—and bright green eyes. One couldn't be blamed for thinking they were father and son, and indeed, that was the story they presented to the world. Only a select few had ever known otherwise, and most of them were dead.

Ivan Romanov stopped next to the floor-to-ceiling window at the very end of the terminal that looked out over the runway, out of earshot of the other passengers. He leaned heavily on his cane, his hands shaking slightly as he stared, clear-eyed, at his nephew. "Alian, I want you to listen to me," he said quietly, for there was a spark of resentment in Henry Hartley's eyes. "I have kept…an unimaginable number of secrets from you over the years. It was foolish of me to think you would never suspect that I have lied to you for most of your life."

A muscle jumped in Henry's jaw. He had grown into a very handsome man, taking after his Romanov heritage almost entirely. There was a stubborn set to his jaw that was identical to his sister's, though of course he could not know that. "You claim loyalty to the U.S.S.R., yet you do not wish for me to follow in your footsteps and serve the motherland. You did not tell me that you and Luisa weren't my real parents until I was eighteen. _Batya—"_ The word was hissed in anger, "—Is my name truly Alian Romanov?"

Ivan bowed his head, but not before Henry saw the tears glistening in his eyes. "I always intended for you to learn the truth someday," he said. "I did not want you to look at me as you are looking at me now, with disgust and betrayal. I hoped that I would be dead before you knew about any of this."

Henry smirked humorlessly, glancing out the window to where Ivan's plane waited on the tarmac, ready for him to board. "You have not even lied to me about why you are going to America," he said. "I would rather hear a refusal of the truth than a polished lie. It is dangerous to travel there."

"Yes," Ivan said, lifting his head and regarding the man he had raised and loved as his own son. He could not be fonder of Henry if the boy was his own flesh and blood. "It is unspeakably dangerous. But I am old, and I do not expect to survive this trip."

"So why must you leave?" Henry asked. His voice broke on the last word, and for a moment he looked like a scared little boy again. He was dangerously close to shedding tears of his own now; Ivan was all he had.

The elder Romanov reached out and placed a wrinkled hand on Henry's shoulder, squeezing it with all of his remaining strength. "I have old friends in Washington. I must go and inform them of a gravely important matter I have recently unearthed that may change the course of this cold war."

"And a letter will not suffice?"

The lines of Ivan's face crinkled in a pained smile as he regarded his nephew. "If I am correct in my assumptions, this is far too monumental to confide to paper. There are eyes and ears everywhere, Alian. Do not forget that." He reached into the pocket of his long coat and withdrew a small glittering stone, looking as smooth and untouched as if it had just been plucked from the depths of a pond, when in reality it was millennia older than Ivan's gnarled hand.

He grasped Henry's wrist and dropped the stone into the young man's palm, closing his fingers around it. "What do you see?" he whispered.

Henry's emerald eyes flickered up to Ivan's, surprise alighting in them. His lips parted slightly and his brow furrowed in confusion. "I see…you," he answered. "I can see your thoughts. You are preparing for something."

Ivan looked unimaginably pleased. "The stone is already more receptive to you than it ever was to me. Look, then, into my mind, and know that I am telling the truth. This is my gift to you, my nephew, my son."

"What is it?" Henry breathed. "Surely this is impossible."

But Ivan never got a chance to answer, for at that moment the entire north window shattered, glass falling like rain onto the floor below. There was an immediate uproar—passengers covering their heads and escaping from the chaos as it burst inward in an almost deafening cacophony of noise. But Henry only had eyes for Ivan, who had crumpled soundlessly to the floor, blood spilling from his chest.

Heedless of the shards littering the ground around him, Henry knelt down and frantically pulled open Ivan's coat to see a bullet buried in his chest, blood staining the surrounding area bright crimson. "Father—" Henry began, his voice breaking, but Ivan was limp in his arms, and he knew it was over. His eyes were still open, his mouth slightly agape as if in surprise, as if he had seen what was coming. A black handgun fell out from where it had been concealed in his coat and clattered onto the floor.

Henry reached out to close Ivan's eyes with shaking hands, blood now staining his own clothes. Nobody was paying attention to him cradling an old man in his arms; they were all too busy running for the exits in case the shooter returned. He glanced up, his vision blurred with tears, as a cold wind blew in from the gaping hole where the window had been, ruffling his hair. And, for the briefest part of a second, his eyes caught on a glint of metal reflected by the sun—a glint of metal on the stairs of the control tower.

He was not sure what compelled him to act—he should have still been paralyzed with shock—but somehow, before he knew it, he had snatched Ivan's gun and was sprinting outside, across the tarmac, under the wings of the airplane that had meant to take Ivan to Washington, and to the control tower in the distance. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, aiming it where he had seen the flash of metal. The shots echoed around the runway, but pinged uselessly off the side of the tower.

Henry was panting by the time he reached the tower, brandishing the gun wildly. "I know you're here!" he shouted, his voice more breathless than intimidating. "Show yourself!"

And then he saw it again—from the top of the stairs, looking down at him, that gleam of something metallic. His frantic mind barely managed to register a glimpse of something red, and something black—the sniper?—but in the time it took him to pull the trigger again, the figure had disappeared.

Henry pounded up the stairs, his muscles burning with exertion, and rounded the balcony, searching for the assassin. But it was empty now, not a living thing in sight, and he was left staring at his own pale reflection.


	31. XXXI

**1972**

**Switzerland**

"I hope this facility has proven adequate for your research, Dr. Zola," the blond man said, surveying the rows of new computers lined up on the floor of the warehouse from his position on the balcony circling the room.

"It has been, Secretary Pierce," Zola replied, limping up to the newly-appointed undersecretary of S.H.I.E.L.D. His hand trembled on the railing. "My workers were the very best Hydra had to offer. Many of them passed down their jobs from father to son. It is…a shame that I am forced to shut it down after so many years."

"It certainly is," Alexander Pierce agreed. His blue eyes were unreadable as he turned back to Zola. "I've heard nothing but good reports from it. These computers represent the best technology available today." Heaving a sigh, he added in a lower voice, "I would like to express my condolences at the news of your diagnosis. If I may ask, how serious is the prognosis?"

Zola's expression darkened. "It is terminal," he admitted. "The physicians are all giving me between six months and a year to live. I am working to set my affairs in order as quickly as possible."

"That's probably a good thing," Pierce remarked. The two men began to walk slowly across the balcony, toward a single door made of reinforced steel. There was a purpose to Pierce deciding to pay a visit to the abandoned building that had once housed Zola's headquarters, and it lay beyond the door. None of the workers had ever dared to ask what it housed. "Hydra will spare no expense in making sure your last wishes are fulfilled."

A small smile curved across Zola's lips. "They most certainly won't," he murmured.

The door slid open automatically, the sensors on the floors and walls detecting their presence, and Zola led Pierce into the short hallway that, at first sight, appeared identical to the rest. He had carefully designed the restricted area to appear as storage rooms instead of their true function as laboratories. It was decidedly a small space in which to work, but Zola only required the essentials.

"Both subjects have been awakened in anticipation of your visit," he said to Pierce, stopping in front of the door on the left.

"That's a relief," Pierce chuckled. "I was beginning to think you brought me all the way back here to kill me!"

Zola, however, didn't smile. "We will start with the Soldier." Pierce gave him a salute, still grinning, as Zola unlocked the door and ushered him inside first.

It was sparsely furnished, with a lone doctor in the corner monitoring the vital signs of the man sitting on a black chair that was hooked up to at least a dozen machines, although he was not restrained. He was dressed in tactical gear, in a bulletproof black vest and trousers, the only splash of color a bright red star painted on his metal arm. His hair was nearly chin-length, falling over his face, and stubble coated his chin. He sat perfectly still, his curiously blank eyes the only thing that moved as Pierce and Zola entered the room.

"At last," Pierce said, clapping his hands together as he stared gleefully at the man, who didn't react at the sudden noise. "The Winter Soldier. I've been waiting a long time to meet you."

Zola swelled with pride as the Soldier stared up at Pierce. He didn't even blink.

Pierce laughed, turning back to Zola. "Not very talkative, is he?"

"He does not speak unless you command him to," Zola said, hobbling over to retrieve the Soldier's file. He looked unimaginably pleased as he studied its contents. "He has just returned from a mission in Crimea. One of our former allies attempted to inform the government of our recent infiltration. Of course, they were not successful."

Pierce hummed in approval. "I can assure you that he will continue to serve Hydra under my command," he told Zola. "What about the other one?"

Something in Zola's countenance changed; he quickly put down the file and motioned for Pierce to exit the room. The other man complied, albeit with a frown. The Soldier silently watched them leave.

"The girl is a special case," Zola explained when they were back in the hallway. "She and the asset were once…familiar with each other."

Pierce's frown deepened. "With all due respect, I fail to see how that is a problem, Doctor," he said evenly. "How can you be certain of the limits of his programming if they aren't tested? Surely you have confidence in the thoroughness of the wipes."

For the first time that day, Zola looked flustered. "I do," he replied. "Unfortunately, the mechanism does not work on the girl. When I took control of this facility, I brought her here in order to further examine her—but the results of my previous testing prevent the erasure or even suppression of memories. She cannot be of use to Hydra unless I am certain she is loyal to us."

"And have you not tried other alternatives?" asked Pierce. "You must know there are other ways to ensure servitude."

"Yes, of course," Zola argued. "But even I do not know the extent of my own experiments. The same power that protects her may also ensure her ability to escape if she is kept awake for too long."

"If she is not useful, then why not dispose of her?"

Zola took a moment to compose himself before answering; no one had ever questioned his methods so brazenly. "No other scientist in history has achieved what I have managed to do," he exclaimed. "I have transferred the energy from the Cosmic Cube into a living subject. It is pure energy, Secretary Pierce. There is no telling how powerful it may become when channelled through a sentient being."

"If I may try something, Doctor," said Pierce. Without waiting for Zola's answer, he strode ahead into the second room.

It was just as small and cramped as the laboratory that held the Soldier, only this one was even more bare. The only object in sight was an open cryotube, its freezing air seeping out into the room, and chained to the wall was Zola's second experiment. She wore a once-white nurse's uniform stained with blood—her own this time instead of her patients'—worryingly thin with her eyes prominent in her sunken face. Her wrists were rubbed raw from her struggles trying to free herself, but she was too weak to wrestle out of the shackles. She didn't even look up as the door opened; Pierce had to kneel down in front of her and make direct eye contact.

"Hello," he said, in a fatherly tone that sounded perfectly calm, the one that automatically put everyone around him at ease. The girl's eyes flickered up to his. "You must be Beatrice Hartley, the army nurse. Dr. Zola has told me a lot about you."

Her gaze traveled past Pierce to land on Zola, who hovered in the doorway. Her lip curled at the sight of him. "What year is it?" she asked, her voice hoarse and croaking. She hadn't spoken a word since she had been awoken several hours beforehand.

Pierce blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"The year," Beatrice repeated, her eyes slowly focusing back on the blond man. "The last time I saw him, he said it was 1955."

Pursing his lips, Pierce contemplated the best way to frame his answer. "I'm afraid it's been a bit longer than that," he replied carefully. "Last time I checked, it was 1972."

Beatrice's eyes widened in shock, and her already ragged breathing sped up. Zola was about to call in the doctor currently tending to the Soldier, but Pierce shook his head. Instead, he continued to speak in a level tone, as if trying to assuage her building panic. "Zola was generous enough to allow me to meet you," he said. "But I am under the impression his experiments with you haven't worked as well as he hoped."

"It's because of the Tesseract," Beatrice said immediately. "Whatever you're trying to do to me won't work because of that." Her hands clenched into fists, but her fingers were shaking. "Are you going to kill me, then?"

Pierce raised his eyebrows. "Of course not!" he assured her. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Dr. Zola, can you give me the key to her handcuffs?"

The doctor looked absolutely flabbergasted, but having no other option than to trust that Pierce knew what he was doing, he reached into his pocket and drew out the key. Pierce took it with a smile and unlocked the restraints, the loud click as they opened the only sound in the quiet room. Beatrice stared numbly down at her wrists, as if unable to believe they were free.

"I don't think I've introduced myself yet," Pierce said as he gently but firmly grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled at the sudden weight but managed to remain standing as he led her over to Zola. "I am Alexander Pierce. I'll be…taking over for the doctor very soon."

Beatrice, who still appeared too shocked to even shrug his arm away, glanced between Pierce and Zola. She stared at the latter for a long moment, her expression hardening, as she realized just how much he had aged since their last encounter. "You're Hydra, then," she said flatly to Pierce. "What do you want with me?"

He looked satisfied, as if he had expected a fight and was pleased there would only be resignation. "You'll see," he said simply. "Dr. Zola, would you lead her out to the control room, please? I'll join you in a minute."

Still utterly oblivious to Pierce's plan, Zola reluctantly nodded and motioned to the door for her to follow him. With Pierce right behind her, Beatrice didn't stand a chance of escaping.

He waited until they had rounded the corner before crossing the hallway back into the Soldier's room. The doctor was checking his metal arm for any needed repairs; the gears whirred loudly at his prodding. If the Soldier was bothered by the doctor jabbing at his arm, he betrayed no signs of it. "Come with me," Pierce instructed him in smooth Russian. The Soldier glanced up at the familiar language and obediently rose, pulling his arm away from the doctor as he came to stand in front of Pierce, his gaze unblinking and alert, waiting for instructions. A dog waiting for its master's orders.

The doctor looked confused at Pierce's reappearance. "But sir, Zola ordered that he be placed into cryofreeze before he is transported back to Siberia."

"That won't be necessary just yet, Doctor," Pierce said firmly. "You may leave us."

The doctor was clearly surprised, but knowing Pierce was of a higher ranking than him, simply nodded and with a quick admission left the room. When he had disappeared, Pierce switched back to English, never taking his gaze away from the Soldier's.

"A prisoner of Hydra's has recently escaped custody, a girl," he explained. "Your order is to find her and bring her back to us." Imagining Zola's expression, he gave a light, almost exasperated sigh. "Try not to kill her unless you have to," he added, almost as an afterthought.

As soon as he had finished speaking, the Soldier gave a tight, controlled nod and strode past him out into the corridor. He carried no weapons, but that did not matter: he was just as effective in close combat as he was with a sniper rifle miles away from his target.

Pierce gave him a brief head start before hurrying to find Zola and Beatrice; they stood on the balcony overlooking the computers. Beatrice was gripping the bar tightly while Zola watched warily as the metal slowly began to crush beneath her fingers.

"Zola!" Pierce shouted, sprinting up to them, his hair windswept and a frantic look on his face. "The asset has escaped! He was unable to be restrained—"

A look of pure, unadulterated horror slowly dawned on Zola's face. "What have you done?" he breathed; Pierce yanked him aside into the dark corridor before he could ruin the experiment.

"I'm testing the asset's programming," Pierce said in a low voice, keeping his eyes fixed on Beatrice. "Surely you can understand why."

"But the girl—"

" _This isn't about the girl,"_ Pierce hissed, and Zola finally fell silent.

Seeing that they had abandoned her, Beatrice stood frozen, like a deer in headlights, until it finally seemed to register that there was a clear path between her and the front doors some hundred feet away. Stunned at the prospect of freedom for the first time in three decades, and still sluggish from cryosleep, it took her muscles another moment to respond to her brain's commands—but then she was taking a running leap toward the balcony and vaulted over it, landing in a crouch on the floor below. Now she could no longer see the doors, but she still knew they were there, and that was all the motivation she needed to sprint in their direction.

She was just beginning to gather up speed, forcing her frozen legs to move, when a figure suddenly melted out of the shadows and strode directly toward her. A breathless scream escaped from Beatrice's lips when she saw the Winter Soldier's metal arm, and she immediately took an abrupt turn and ran down the nearest aisle of computers, throwing a desperate glance behind her shoulder to see him following her, slower but purposeful, like a cat stalking its prey. When she turned back to the front she saw the row about to end, and an open area through which there was no escape except to turn around and go back the way she had come.

Acting on instinct, Beatrice dove down to the floor and rolled under the desk, crawling on her hands and knees until she reached the very end of the row. She pressed herself against the edge, curling herself up into a ball, her heart slamming like a drum against her ribcage. Her palm was pressed over her mouth to stop herself from making any noise, but she could still hear her breath coming in quick pants. She was shaking all over—but went absolutely, completely still when she heard his footsteps advancing on her. They reached her position, and then stopped. Beatrice waited an agonizing moment before that metal arm shot out and grabbed her before she could react, dragging her back out into the aisle.

This time she really did scream, and kicked out blindly, but the grip on her wrist only tightened. She gestured about wildly with her free arm, hoping to hit something—and a jolt shot though her fingers, as if she had touched a hot surface, and she quickly yanked her arm backward, but it was too late: Beatrice watched as a stack of nearby papers went flying of their own accord right towards the Soldier. He let go of her with a grunt, and she scrambled to her feet, but he was quicker, grabbing her wrist and yanking her back toward him. This time Beatrice saw his face in sharp relief, and her struggles stopped as the entire world seemed to halt around her.

"Bucky?" she whispered.

The Soldier hesitated for the briefest part of a second before his conditioning kicked in. His human arm wrapped around her neck, pulling her against his chest, applying just enough pressure so that her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp. He caught her before she could fall to the floor, lifting her up as if she weighed no more than a feather, his metal arm under her legs and his right arm supporting her back. His gaze didn't waver as he carried her back down the aisle, holding her out in front of him like an offering, where Pierce and Zola were waiting for him at the base of the stairs.

"Good work, Soldier," Pierce told him approvingly as the doctor came hurrying toward them. He gestured vaguely for Beatrice to be transferred to the doctor; the Soldier complied, but his eyes followed her until she had disappeared out of sight.

"We do not usually issue congratulations," Zola said stiffly.

Pierce scoffed. "Why not? Positive reinforcement may encourage him to complete his next mission even quicker." He turned back to the Soldier, a small smirk playing at his lips. "I do have one question: why not kill the girl? You had permission to use lethal force if necessary, and it looked like she was putting up quite a fight."

The Soldier's stoic expression slowly morphed into one of almost childlike bewilderment. His eyebrows drew together and his lips parted slightly as he struggled to answer. "I don't know," he said. It was the first time he had spoken that day. His voice was much softer, more ordinary, than one would have expected coming from a weapon who had been carefully twisted into the perfect soldier. A moment later he asked, "Who was she? She called me Bucky."

Pierce turned away, not even bothering to respond. He looked disappointed. "Wipe him," he said carelessly to Zola.

The doctor blinked. "But he was just wiped—another one so soon may inflict damage—"

"Then allow him to kill you," Pierce said. "As I have no doubt he shall attempt to if you leave him like this any longer. His memories are not permanently erased as I thought they were." He began to stride away, leaving an astonished Zola with the Soldier, whose metal hand was loosely curled into a fist. His breathing had grown ragged. "You were right…they are to be kept as far apart as possible."


	32. XXXII

**2012**

**Brooklyn**

The rumble of a motorcycle interrupted the happily chirping birds as they flew from tree to tree, searching for a mate. The promise of spring had come once again to the city, buds popping out of the ground and the branches of the old trees that guarded Green-Wood Cemetery.

The motorcycle puttered to a stop in front of the arched gate, its rider ignoring the now angrily twittering birds as he strode over the path worn from decades of use, the stone angels staring blindly down at him. If he was familiar to them, they stayed silent.

Today the cemetery was peaceful, quiet; a light breeze blew through the trees as Steve Rogers made his way down the winding paths that led all the way to the river and then back again. This was an old part of the cemetery, many of the graves dating back to the nineteenth century. Most of the stones were worn and cracked, having no one left to care for them. The view of the gleaming skyscrapers of Manhattan across the East River was something any real estate developer would kill for; unfortunately, the cemetery's inhabitants were already dead and couldn't appreciate the sight.

Steve's pace slowed when he found the row he was looking for—he'd visited his parents' graves before; in fact, it had been one of the first things he'd done after Fury had finally allowed the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to drop his tail, but he hadn't been able to bear visiting this particular grave until now.

Beatrice's headstone was smaller than her parents' were; Steve had been told it was added at the request of Henry Hartley in the seventies. It was also considerably less weathered—whereas it was difficult to make out the lettering on John and Elena's tombstones, hers was still relatively legible. It was simple, merely stating her name and date of birth. There was no death date, as Henry hadn't known when she had gone missing—but Steve did. Not even crashing the Valkyrie into the Arctic had come close to the day he lost both Bucky and Beatrice.

He halted in front of the grave and slowly knelt down, brushing the dirt away from it. To an onlooker, his face would have appeared stoic, but his internal turmoil would have been apparent to those who knew him best.

Beatrice's body wasn't there, of course: like Bucky, she had never been found. Steve traced the letters of her name and bowed his head, inhaling sharply. He stayed like that for a long time, so long that one could be forgiven for thinking he was a statue. When he finally straightened up again his eyes were wet. He placed a hand on the top of the stone, stroking it with his thumb, before taking another deep breath and turning away. His blue eyes were downcast, his hands stuffed in his pockets, as he slowly retraced his steps, back to his motorcycle and his bare S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued apartment. Even the birds were silent as he left.

Steve did not return to Green-Wood Cemetery, but from that day on, a bouquet of roses would be delivered every year on the twenty-third of March by an anonymous benefactor, carefully placed on the grave of a girl who had been dead for sixty-eight years.

* * *

**Winchester, England**

"Something is bothering you."

Steve glanced over at Peggy from his seat in the chair next to her bed and gave a weary smile. "Not at all," he said, but the lie was transparent.

"Don't give me that look," she scolded. Though her once dark brown hair had long since turned gray, and wrinkles crossed her aged face, her eyes were still as sharp as ever. "You're wallowing. I can tell."

His rueful grin briefly turned genuine at her perceptiveness, but the amusement soon faded from his eyes. "I've just…had a lot of time to think recently," Steve began, and let his voice trail off. He seemed unsure how to proceed.

"About why you're at the bedside of a senile old woman instead of celebrating?" Peggy interjected, a familiar smirk playing on her lips.

Steve shook his head. "You're not senile, Peggy."

"Not yet," she amended, settling back into her pillows and regarding him with tender fondness. "You should be proud of yourself. You saved the world twice. Not many people can attest to that."

"I always had help," Steve replied. "Besides, aliens attacking New York is a bit different from fighting Nazis in Europe."

Peggy laughed; Steve's eyes lit up at the sound. "Always arguing about semantics," she gently teased him. "And I see you still have the habit of trying to change the subject."

"I see you're still as observant as ever," he retorted.

"No, you're just as easy to read as ever." Satisfied that she had won, Peggy folded her hands on top of the blanket, her wedding ring glinting in the light. Her husband had been dead for over a decade, but she still insisted upon wearing it. "What is it?"

The words sounded heavy on Steve's lips, as if they carried a physical weight. "The other day I went to Brooklyn and visited Beatrice's grave."

Peggy's face softened in understanding. "I did tell you that Henry Hartley insisted on it," she said. "You should meet him, Steve. I think it would give you some sort of closure."

" _Closure,"_ Steve scoffed. "He probably blames me for what happened to her."

Peggy shook her head slowly with a look of mingled pity and frustration. "He doesn't blame you," she said firmly. "Nobody does. Like Barnes, she made her own decision. You had nothing to do with it."

"But if I'd stayed with her—if I'd looked harder when I realized she had disappeared—"

"What would you _have_ done?" Peggy asked evenly. "Left her alone when you decided to bring down the Valkyrie? She would have lost both of you." Seeing that Steve didn't look convinced, she added, "Do you think either her or Barnes would want you to sit here wallowing in self-pity when you've been given another chance? You need to go out and _live._ The world's still spinning thanks to you." She gave a tiny, amused smile, some glimmer of her younger self reflected in the old woman.

Steve sighed, frustration evident in every line of his body. This sort of emotion was reserved for Peggy alone; he had never been able to let his guard down in front of anybody since he'd been unfrozen. "It's not just Beatrice I couldn't save," he ground out. "It's Bucky, too. If it wasn't for me, if it wasn't for _Captain America—_ they could have gone home after that Hydra base in Austria was liberated. But Phillips wanted them to stay because of their connection to me."

Such an outburst would normally have earned a sharp word from Peggy, but she didn't speak for a long time, and her answer was surprisingly gentle. Her gaze was suddenly very clear as she regarded him. "You loved them more than anything else in the world."

"Peggy…" Steve began wearily. He suddenly looked very old.

"Don't 'Peggy' me," she told him, in the no-nonsense tone that had kept her children and grandchildren in line for years. "You give yourself too much credit. They would have stayed in Europe no matter what you did. Look, you can't live in the past forever. We all have to move on."

Steve turned his gaze to the frames adorning her bedside table, pictures of her family and life over the decades a constant reminder she had done just that, and had never regretted it once. "Yes, ma'am," he replied obediently, slightly teasing, hoping to displace the tension. Already he wished he hadn't brought up the topic; the nurse had warned him she had good days and bad days, and they could switch at the slightest trigger. "I suppose I'll have to try." The corner of his mouth quirked up again, ruefully, as his eyes lingered on the photo of her and her husband on their wedding day; Peggy giving a rare, genuine smile, and her husband gazing adoringly down at her, utterly smitten. Her own eyes followed his gaze, and she seemed to silently chastise him.

"Go visit Henry," she urged, reaching out to grasp his hand and shake him back into the present, her grip surprisingly strong. "He's not that far away, you know."

"I'm not sure where he lives," Steve admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "He's retired now."

Peggy looked about to roll her eyes. "I would have thought you'd learned by now that S.H.I.E.L.D. always keeps track of its agents."


	33. XXXIII

**2014**

**Somewhere over Europe**

The setting sun gleamed off the Stark Industries jet, the freshly-painted logo emblazoned on the side of the airplane. The sky was a fiery combination of reds, oranges, and pinks, the deep blue of daylight giving way to the brighter colors of evening. Several thousand feet below, the wall of clouds created the illusion of a soft, carpeted floor, as if the plane was the only thing that existed in the entire world. If Steve hadn't been so preoccupied, he would have been glued to the window with his sketchbook and coloring pencils. As it was, however, he barely noticed the brilliant sunset, the sun sinking fast as they flew eastward; he fidgeted in one of the luxurious leather chairs scattered around the cabin, trying and failing to hide his anxiety. He hadn't managed to sit still for more than a couple of minutes at a time since they'd taken off five hours previously. The flight from Washington to Geneva was normally eight hours, but the pilot had assured him they could get there in six. Steve supposed he should have expected nothing less from a Stark Industries plane.

"You look like you could use a drink," Sam remarked, taking the seat across from him with a martini in hand. The other man had been in awe when he'd encountered his first taste of Tony Stark's lifestyle, from the personal escort who had ushered them through Dulles without having to go through security or wait in line, to the unbridled opulence of the plane itself, which included a fully-stocked bar. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall, the channel turned to a baseball game, but Steve was barely watching it. He gave a small but humorless smirk as he turned to Sam from where he had been blankly staring at the screen, lost in thought.

"I'd love to, but it wouldn't have any effect on me," he said, more than a bit ruefully.

"Oh right, you and your crazy fast metabolism," Sam replied, taking a sip of his own drink. He didn't look as if he envied Steve that particular trait in the least. A moment passed before he added, "Still thinking about that call, huh?"

Steve nodded slowly and re-crossed his legs, his ankle resting on his knee. Rarely was the calm, collected Captain America so agitated. "I don't see how I  _can't_ think about it."

Sam looked thoughtful, leaning back in his chair and regarding Steve with the compassionate gaze he often gave his students at the VA. "Look, man, I can't even imagine how you must feel right now—I don't know how I'd react if I found out that Riley was still alive." He let out a low chuckle, his eyes darkening slightly at the mention of his best friend. "It's gotta be even crazier for you—not only is Barnes alive, with all that happened to him, your other best friend is, too."

"That's what I'm worried about," Steve admitted quietly, bowing his head and staring down at his hands, which were clenched on the armrests. "It sounds like she was captured by Hydra too. What if they erased her memories like they did to Bucky?"

"I wouldn't bet on that," Sam tried to reassure him. "Romanoff made it sound like she'd been frozen for a while."

"But who knows what they did to her when they found her?" Steve argued. "Anything could have happened."

Sam observed him for a long moment. Steve's tension was palpable—the frustration of regaining two beloved links to his past, Bucky and Beatrice—and yet they were so fundamentally changed. "That's true," he admitted. "But I've never met anyone who gets as many second chances as you do."

Steve forced a smile. "I guess you're right," he replied.

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Sam asked, "Hey, how come I didn't know about this chick before?"

Steve raised his eyebrows. "You didn't know about Bucky, either."

"Sure I did. American History 101," Sam said with a grin. "Required course in freshman year of high school. There's not a kid in this country who doesn't know about Captain America and his Howling Commandos. No mention of a nurse, though."

Steve winced, almost imperceptibly, and Sam immediately regretted his words. "There's a plaque dedicated to her in the Smithsonian," he explained. "I insisted on it. But I don't think a lot of people stop to read it. Anyway, a big memorial isn't what she would have wanted. I doubt Bucky would have wanted an entire wall dedicated to him, either, but the museum did it anyway. Sometimes I wish I hadn't agreed to that exhibit."

"And were they close?" Sam asked. "Barnes and Hartley. They knew each other, right?"

"Yeah," Steve said, lost in his own memories again. "They were engaged."

Sam choked on his drink.

* * *

**Switzerland**

Rain streaked against the glass like tears, a sudden heavy wind lashing it against the window. Natasha's arms were crossed, her expression unreadable as she stared outside at the storm. Standing a ways behind her, Clint watched her reflection bend and twist with the light. She had barely spoken since she'd gotten off the phone with Steve; Clint knew her well enough to be able to tell that she was unsettled, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

"When do you think they'll get here?" he asked, breaking the silence. Fury had sent them away once his trusted team of ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors had arrived, making sure that the woman was still alive and able to be awoken. He had a safe house in Geneva, but after the previous situation where Steve had panicked upon awakening and ran out into Times Square, Fury felt it best that she was awoken somewhere far away from a crowded city, both for civilian safety and to ease her own shock.

Clint and Natasha had patrolled the perimeter of the building ever since the doctors arrived, looking for clues in Zola's abandoned laboratory. Clint was no forensic scientist, but he was certain the blood splattered all over the operating table was the mysterious woman's. Likewise, he was no engineer, but he was just as certain that the computers weren't about to turn on anytime soon. There was no other human activity for miles; they had little chance of being ambushed by rogue Hydra agents. Besides, he was sure that very few people knew about this place, Hydra or not.

Natasha's green eyes flickered to him as he slowly walked up beside her, his bow at his side. "Hard to say," she replied, pursing her lips. "Stark's jets are state-of-the-art, obviously, but it'll take them a while to get out here. Fury sent a driver to meet them at the airport."

Clint was silent for a moment as he followed her gaze, waiting for headlights to appear from the dark trees. "What is it, Nat?" he asked quietly.

Natasha's answering frown was too perfectly timed, her eyebrows drawing together only the slightest bit. "What are you talking about?"

Clint glanced over at her, finally meeting her eyes. "Something's bothering you," he said matter-of-factly. "Ever since Fury told you her name. Beatrice Hartley."

Natasha didn't look away from him, but her defensive posture eased slightly. "You're perceptive today," she murmured. "Figures."

Clint's eyebrows shot up. "Then you know who she is?"

"Yes," Natasha admitted after a pause. "And no."

Before Clint could even try to decipher her words, she broke their gazes and turned away, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket again. "I'll tell you later," she said as she began to walk away from him in search of better reception. "I have to make another call."

* * *

**Washington**

The Boeing 747 idled on the tarmac as airport employees rushed to and fro around the enormous jet, hauling luggage into the cargo hold and refueling it for the upcoming flight to Europe. The passengers would be boarding soon, and they were all beginning to gather around the gate.

One man stood apart from the rest, his hands in his pockets and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Unlike the others, he carried no ticket. Unbeknownst to the rest of the passengers, there were two men dressed in security guard uniforms with enough ammunition to kill every person in the entire terminal watching him from several dozen feet away, who had tailed him from the Smithsonian. They were the only trained Hydra agents left in the city after he had taken out the guards sent to ambush him at the museum. Rogers and Wilson had escaped, too, but they weren't at the top of Hydra's priority list now—the asset was.

He turned away from the window and began to make his way over to the employee entrance, which in turn had an exit out onto the tarmac for the cargo workers. One of the Hydra agents noticed this, but in the time it took for him to gesture to his colleague, the Winter Soldier had disappeared. Within seconds both of them were striding through the exit, no one thinking to question security guards.

The warm spring sun beat down onto the tarmac as they hurried outside, staring around at the busy scene as workers scurried around loading cargo into the hold. One of the supervisors was standing under the wing, barking into a cell phone.

The first security guard nodded to the other agent-in-disguise and walked over to the supervisor while the second stayed where he was, thumbs hooked in his belt, searching the area. His fingers brushed the handle of his gun.

"Yes, there was a Stark Industries jet here earlier…no, I don't know if Stark was on it. Whatever it was, it was in and out of here within an hour. Yes, I'll look into the publicity possibilities, sir. Good afternoon." The supervisor ended the call with a derisive snort, shaking his head and glancing up when he saw the security guard approaching him. "Can I help you?" he asked.

The guard flashed his identification badge, which had been stolen from the officer he was impersonating. "My partner and I were notified of a situation down here. An unauthorized person was spotted in the restricted area."

The supervisor looked unimpressed. "With all due respect, I've been staring at that door for half an hour, and it hasn't opened for a second, unless they moved faster than I can blink. Besides, does it look like anyone could hide around here?" He gestured to the open space surrounding them.

The second Hydra guard was watching the suitcases being tossed into the plane, his sharp eyes darting back and forth. There was no sign of the asset anywhere—indeed, it ought to have been impossible for anyone to slip outside unnoticed, but he wasn't about to underestimate the Soldier.

He took a few steps forward and peered into the cargo hold, ignoring the disgruntled worker yelling at him to get out of the way. It was almost full, and they were getting ready to close it—and then he saw it: the slightest bit of movement inside, and the sun briefly glinted against a telltale flash of metal.

The guard whistled, but the howl of another plane landing drowned out his words. He stared over at his colleague, who was still arguing with the supervisor, and knew he would lose precious time by interrupting him. So he pulled out his gun and leapt into the cargo hold, paying no heed to the angry shouts after him.

The hold was cool and the engine hummed under his feet as he ventured forward, his gun held out in front of him. "I know you're in here!" he called, surveying the piles of luggage scattered around the cabin. "You can't hide from—"

His words were cut off with a gargle as he was slammed back against the wall, metal fingers closing around his throat. He had only ever seen the asset subdued and contained in his cell, his face empty and his expression blank—but now the Winter Soldier's face was twisted in an almost feral snarl, his eyes wild. "Who sent you?" he demanded, his grip tightening when the guard didn't answer right away.

"No—no one," the agent gasped, gulping like a fish as he struggled for air. "It was my mission to track you down if you ever escaped."

The word "mission" was the wrong thing to say: the Soldier struck him, hard, in the chest, and he doubled over, his face quickly turning purple. But there was still a hint of defiance in the Hydra agent's face as he raised his head. "You're looking for answers, but you won't find them here. Everything has been destroyed. The European division of Hydra will show you no mercy."

The Soldier twisted his wrist until his numb fingers let go of the gun, and he snatched it up, leaving the agent unarmed. His dark eyes burned into his for a second, and the agent was sure he was about to die, before the asset suddenly turned and was gone, leaving no trace of his presence behind. A moment later voices were audible from outside, and a police officer leapt into the cargo hold, pointing his own gun at the agent. "I'm interested to see what the explanation for this will be," he said. A swarm of police officers had surrounded the airplane—the first Hydra agent was already handcuffed on the ground.

As he was escorted out of the plane, his hands behind his head, the agent turned to look for the Winter Soldier, but the cargo hold was empty.


	34. XXXIV

Beatrice came to on a hard surface, her palms pressed against cold metal, her eyes squeezed shut against some unknown danger. Inch by inch, sensation began to return to her limbs, and she was mentally aware that she was freezing before she actually felt the temperature.

Hazy memories danced around her mind, clouded at the edges but still retrievable—Zola's panicked voice. The light, taunting smirk of Alexander Pierce. And… _Bucky._ Bucky, with a blank expression and dead, dead eyes. Bucky, with a gleaming metal arm. Bucky, who was somehow alive. The other Hydra experiment, captured again at last.

Panting and breathless, Beatrice's eyes snapped open. At first, all she saw was a surge of blinding white light, the change from dark unconsciousness sending a physical shock through her. It was bright— _too_ bright—and she blinked rapidly, cringing away from it. It took her a long, sluggish moment before she realized that it wasn't actually light, but rather the color of the walls, painted a harsh, unnatural hue like those in a hospital.

She lay still for a long moment, trying to control her breathing and stop the world from spinning around her. She could feel her heart pounding erratically, and wondered vaguely if it was really as loud as it sounded to her own ears. Wincing, she moved her hands up to cover them—but something seized her by the wrists. She briefly struggled against her bonds, but they only tightened and she could feel the blood leaving her fingers.

It was then that she realized she wasn't the only one in the room.

Someone was holding her down.

She sat up so fast that her muscles screamed in protest and the white walls began to whirl even more crazily. She toppled off the gurney she'd been lying on, but something caught her just before she hit the floor—a pair of scarred, beaten hands that were seconds ago manacles locking her in place.

Beatrice immediately scrambled away on her hands and knees, whirling around and pressing her back against the wall, curling herself up into a ball like a cornered animal. The blood quickly pooled back into her hands and she bit her lip hard so that she wouldn't make a sound, but she was shaking so violently that she almost fell over again.

A figure bent down in front of her, and she was forced to peer at them through her curtain of hair, not wanting to close her eyes again. It wasn't Zola or Pierce—in fact, she didn't recognize him at all. Her captor this time was a muscular, dark-skinned man with an eyepatch slung over his left eye, who was looking at her every bit as suspiciously as she was glaring at him. She was certain she had never seen him before, but something about his countenance was intimidating and screamed danger, far more than any other Hydra agent who had been sent to watch over her. Her fingers instinctively curled into fists, though she knew she would never stand any sort of chance against him, serum or not.

"Beatrice Hartley," he said, his voice a low, gruff rumble. An American. "That is your name, correct?"

She cocked her head slightly to the side. Shouldn't that information have been included in her file? "Yes," she replied, but immediately wished she had made up a false name. She might have been able to trick him, although this man didn't seem like someone who could be easily lied to.

One dark eye was narrowed at her as the man sized her up; from her dealings with various rankings of Hydra agents, she could guess that he was someone who was used to being obeyed. Was he Zola's replacement? _Pierce's_ replacement? How much time had passed since she was last awoken? What if this man made her face Bucky again? At the thought, her heart sped up again, and she scrabbled uselessly at the floor, her nails digging so deeply into her palms that she felt the skin break.

"Please, sir," she begged him, knowing she had to act deferential if she wanted an answer. "What—what year is it?"

He watched her for another long moment; she could tell he was debating what to say to her. She was shaking again, her teeth chattering loudly against each other. "It is April of 2014," he finally replied, and Beatrice's heart threatened to burst right out of her chest. She was no longer in the next decade; she was in the next _century._ If he was to be believed, she had been trapped here for seventy years, awoken twice only to be stuck with needles and prodded by those who called themselves doctors, shoved back into cryofreeze when they no longer needed her. Had Bucky met a similar fate? Beatrice's eyes locked on the cryotube standing in the far corner, and she was struck with the memories of being wrestled inside, tears streaking her face, begging for mercy. But the door would always be slammed shut, the chamber barely big enough to fit her, as small as she was. As she pounded the door uselessly, the cold would begin to fill the tube until she was shivering, her lips turning blue and icicles forming on her eyelashes. She would gasp for air, trying to stay conscious for as long as possible before the cold swallowed her up.

She began to hyperventilate at the memories, and she stared, wide-eyed, unable to tear her eyes away from it. "Don't put me back in there! Please—" she gulped.

Seeing that she was beginning to panic again, the man said in an even, almost reassuring voice, "I wasn't planning on it, Nurse Hartley." While Beatrice struggled to comprehend the implications of his words, he called out in a louder voice, "Doctor Fine!" and Beatrice tensed as the door opened and another man came into the room. He wore a surgeon's mask and large round glasses with kind eyes; there was something more trustworthy about him than any of the other Hydra doctors, and that was what caused Beatrice to take a small green pill from him, wincing as it slowly slid down her dry throat. Almost immediately she felt her heart slow, her thoughts clear, and her muscles relax. She slowly leaned back against the wall again and exhaled heavily. Without panic clouding her thoughts, thinking became easier.

"Her condition is stable," Dr. Fine said in a low voice as she relaxed. "Should I call in the other doctors?"

The other man shook his head. "No, I don't think that will be necessary. Thank you."

Seeming to take that as a dismissal, Dr. Fine straightened up and quietly left the room, leaving Beatrice alone with the first man again. When he spoke again, his voice was steady and assured, authority ringing in every word. "My name is Nick Fury, and I am the director of an intelligence agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. Two of my agents found you here. You're safe now."

Beatrice blinked slowly. "You're not Hydra?"

"Hydra no longer exists."

She was aware he was examining her closely, monitoring her reactions, but she couldn't stop the shock from crossing her face. "No longer exists?" she asked weakly. "What does…what does that mean?"

"At least not officially," Fury amended. "That will be explained in time. It is best if you are acclimatized slowly."

Haltingly, she continued, "The war…is it over?"

"Yes," he answered carefully. "It ended in 1945. The Allies won."

She had gathered as much from the snippets of conversation she was able to overhear when Zola thought she was unconscious, but such a notion was alien to her all the same. So not that long after she had disappeared, then. If she'd only managed to hang on a little bit longer; if she'd managed to hold onto _Bucky_ a little bit longer, they could have gone home. Still, the thought that the world wasn't tearing itself apart anymore gave her some small sense of relief.

"You're going to be all right, Nurse Hartley," Fury told her, and she mutely nodded, unwilling to believe him just yet. Seemingly satisfied with her response, he stood up and made for the door. "Come with me."

Beatrice slowly got to her feet; her legs felt like they were going to collapse from under her and her throat was uncomfortably dry. She opened her mouth to ask for a glass of water, but the question didn't make it past her lips. She squirmed uncomfortably under Fury's stare; he was surveying her like she was an insect under a microscope—something to be scrutinized and examined. Questions were racing through her mind, but she didn't know which one of them to ask first. She again considered asking him for a glass of water, but was afraid she would choke on it if she tried to swallow anything more.

"Do you…do you often come across…people like me?" she managed to ask. What she desperately wanted was to say _Have you found Bucky?_ but her question was poorly disguised as it was.

"No," Fury said as they emerged into a dingy hallway filled with flickering lights that tugged at the edges of Beatrice's memory. This was the same place she had seen Bucky. "Cryogenic preservation hasn't quite entered the public consciousness yet." She wasn't sure if there was a touch of sarcasm to his tone or she was just imagining it.

"Where am I?" she asked after another moment.

If Fury was growing impatient with her questions, he didn't show it. "A laboratory in Switzerland," he answered. "It belonged to Arnim Zola until his death—we have reason to believe that the knowledge of your location died with him. Hydra abandoned many of their…failed experiments."

So that was all she was. A failed experiment. Zola hadn't even cared enough to kill her. She almost wished he had.

Fury opened the door to the room on the other side of the corridor, which was just as small and cramped as the one they had left, but this one contained a cot rather than a gurney. A group of about five doctors all appeared to have been waiting for her arrival. "Do you mind if we examine you?" the one she recognized as Dr. Fine asked, stepping forward. She hesitated, tensing, but figuring she had no choice, walked over to perch gingerly on the cot.

Fury watched with a critical eye as her vital signs were checked, her blood pressure and reflexes examined and analyzed. When they all appeared to come back normal, one of the doctors handed her a pair of denim jeans—which Beatrice took with some confusion; they didn't look like any jeans she had ever seen before—and a strangely soft, long-sleeved shirt in a neutral beige tone. "We thought you might need some new clothes," said Fury. "You've been wearing that uniform since you woke up."

For the first time, she glanced down at what she was wearing; the once-pristine white of her nurse's uniform was streaked with blood. When had she put it on? The morning after staying with Bucky at the Dorchester Hotel, she remembered, but quickly pushed the thought out of her mind lest she begin to cry. It hurt too much to even think about. "Oh, right," she said faintly, and took the clothes. "Thank you."

"There's a bathroom over there." Fury nodded to a second door behind Dr. Fine, through which she could see a sink and toilet. "You might want to get yourself cleaned up."

She must really look a sight. Beatrice shifted the pile of clothes to her other arm and scurried past the doctors inside, feeling Fury's sharp gaze on her until she closed the door. She vaguely wondered why she hadn't fallen apart yet. Perhaps that was coming. Now she just felt numb and empty, as if her emotions were dulled. She wondered if it was a side effect of the pill Dr. Fine had given her. At any rate, she was very aware of Fury standing right outside the bathroom, and knew that any panic attack she might have would send the doctors rushing inside. So she slipped into the new clothes and splashed cold water on her face, jerking herself back to alertness. She was careful to avoid looking at herself directly in the mirror until the very end, refusing to admit to herself that she was afraid of what she would see. Her hands shook as she turned the tap, rusty water trickling out from the faucet as the pipes groaned loudly, and she realized with a dull jolt that Bucky's bracelet was gone from her wrist. She was trying very hard not to think of Bucky or Steve or Henry or Ivan or Howard or Rebecca or Caroline or Ruth or Peggy or Angie—of all the people she had left behind. Everything she'd known, everyone she'd loved, gone forever…

As she straightened up after wiping her face with a towel, Beatrice met her own eyes for the first time. They were round with trepidation and guilt. _At least I look the same,_ she thought, leaning forward to examine herself more closely.

She instinctively reached out to touch the woman in the mirror, but of course her fingers were only met with cool glass. Beatrice sighed and moved away, turning off the light and opening the door again. After the relative dimness of the bathroom, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the bright fluorescent lighting again, and another moment to register that the doctors were gone and Fury had been joined by two other people: a pretty woman with red hair and green eyes, whose features were somehow strangely familiar, and a brown-haired, muscular man carrying a bow and arrow. A strange choice of weapon, Beatrice thought.

They all turned at her approach, but before anyone could speak, the door burst open and two more men came striding in: one tall and dark, a wary expression on his face, and a _very_ familiar blond man. He wore a leather jacket and a baseball cap, but Beatrice would have recognized him anywhere.

_Steve._

Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face, and she was suddenly frozen to the spot. She hadn't felt anything so potent since she'd opened her eyes, and she was hit with an overwhelming sense of comfort, so potent that it made her breathless. She was safe.

She gasped, unable to stop her reaction. He was still here, still alive, still _young_ —but it had been seventy years—Fury had said it was 2014—

Steve stopped short at the sound as if he recognized it, his eyes quickly scanning the room—and then they landed on her, and his mouth opened in disbelief as his eyes went wide. "Beatrice," she heard him murmur, and she wasn't sure which one of them moved first, but she was suddenly caught up in his arms and was gripping onto his shoulders as tightly as she could, sobbing into his shirt. She kept repeating his name over and over again, heedless of their audience, holding onto him as if he was the only solid thing left in a constantly shifting world.

When her uncontrollable shaking had finally ceased, Steve gently drew back to look at her, searching her face. His own eyes were the same warm, steady blue as Beatrice remembered, but there was a new element to them—something world-weary, battle-hardened. He had changed since becoming Captain America, she knew, but this was something even more apparent, as if he had seen one too many wars. "Is it true, Steve?" Beatrice whispered. "Is it…is it 2014? What are you doing here?"

"Shhh," he said soothingly, and forced a weary smile. "I'll explain everything soon. You can trust everyone here, Beatrice."

But she was already speaking again, desperate to get the words out. "I saw Bucky. He's alive. He has—he has a metal arm. Zola, he—well, Alexander Pierce—sent him after me. I know it was him, Steve—"

"Yes, it was." A horribly solemn expression crossed his face at the mention of their best friend, and her heart skipped a beat. Something was very wrong. "He's alive, Beatrice. We all are."

"Then where is he?" she demanded. "We need to find him."

Steve took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something difficult. His gaze was shadowed as he replied. "Beatrice, he wasn't as…lucky as we are. Hydra erased his memories." Steve's jaw clenched, and he inhaled a sharp breath, his hands clenching into fists. "They turned him into an assassin. The Winter Soldier."

She stared dumbly at him.

"Great start, Rogers," Beatrice heard someone mutter, but she didn't pay attention to who had spoken. The room began to spin again, and Steve was saying something urgently to her, but Beatrice barely heard it through the rushing noise in her ears. One moment, she was holding onto him, and the next, she was on the floor staring up at the ceiling. She craned her head to look for Steve, but the faces whirling above her were moving too fast. Nausea twisted in her stomach, and she rolled over on her side to retch, but her stomach was empty.

"Tranquilize her," she heard Fury command, and the redheaded woman bent down to jab a needle into her wrist. Beatrice was too weak to pull away. She heard Steve protest, but it was too late: her vision was going white, and not because of the walls this time. She slumped down onto the floor, curling up into a ball to protect herself. She felt Steve's strong arms go around her again and she was gently lifted off the ground, but her head felt too heavy to move. Beatrice's eyes closed of their own accord, and her last thought was of the calming darkness.


	35. XXXV

She opened her eyes to a dimly-lit bedroom, the only light seeping in from behind the curtains covering a small window. The walls were painted light blue, and directly across from the bed she was lying on was an idyllic painting of the countryside, cows dotting gently rolling hills with a bright red barn in the background. Beatrice stared at it for a moment, struggling to return to herself. Whatever she had imagined the future to be like, it definitely wasn't this. They wanted to acclimatize her slowly, Fury had said. At least she didn't appear to be in the laboratory anymore.

"Beatrice?" a quiet, slightly strained voice asked from beside her—Steve. She turned to him, allowing herself to feel the sense of relief that came with his presence, so instantaneous and overwhelming that it was something akin to a reflex. So he hadn't been a hallucination. As long as Steve was here, she could get through this.

He was leaning forward, his eyebrows furrowed in that familiar worried expression she knew so well, bright blue eyes peering down at her. Her lips curved upward in an automatic smile, even though smiling was the last thing she wanted to do. "I fainted, didn't I?" she asked stupidly, sitting up and pushing the bedclothes away. "You know, you could have just used smelling salts."

Steve's answering grin seemed more of an instinctual reaction than anything else, though he appeared relieved to see her awake and calmer. "Yeah, you did," he admitted. "I shouldn't have told you any of that, Beatrice. You were still in shock."

She shook her head. "No, it's not your fault. I'm glad you told me." Pushing back the wave of despair that threatened to crush her, she whispered, "But he… _Bucky_ …didn't try to kill me. He just…choked me until I was unconscious." But she knew even as she spoke that the words were hollow: the Bucky she had known would never have done that to her under any circumstances. Steve's mouth twisted downwards, and she knew he was thinking the same thing.

"Yeah, well, he tried to kill  _me._  More than once," he said ruefully, and Beatrice felt her breathing turn shallow. Sensing her distress, Steve quickly added, "But it wasn't him. It wasn't Bucky. It was Hydra—they did everything. And he remembered me. I know he did."

"Where is he now?" Beatrice asked. Her voice was so quiet she could hardly hear it herself.

"I don't know," Steve said, with a slight, frustrated shake of his head. "Sam and I were looking for him when we got the call that you'd been found."

"Sam?" she questioned before remembering the man she'd seen alongside Steve. "What about the others who were with you? Do they know I'm here?"

He nodded. "They're downstairs. We're at one of Fury's safe houses in Geneva. He's letting us stay here for as long as we need to."

 _As long as_ I  _need to,_ Beatrice thought, fear springing up into her throat again. She stared at Steve with her eyebrows creasing in worry. "I'm sorry," she told him. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't tried to find Bucky on my own after the fall—if I'd stayed with you—"

"Beatrice, it's not your fault," Steve said emphatically; his expression was firm, no hint of deception in his eyes. "I would have gone after him too. Look, it wouldn't have done any good anyway."

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated for the slightest moment before answering. "Hydra was already on the lookout after you escaped; you and Bucky were found by Soviet agents who were under Zola's command. Fury thinks they kept you both frozen until he was released from U.S. custody. He must have gone straight back to Europe."

"They woke me up twice," Beatrice mused. "Once in 1955 and once in 1972. Zola was there both times." She paused. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Steve gave a short nod. "He died a few months after Pierce took over."

Beatrice's relief that Zola was finally gone was overshadowed by the unexpected stiffness that colored Steve's tone at the mention of the other man. "Did you know Pierce?" she ventured to ask.

This time she saw his mouth even out in a hard line, and it was his turn to glance away from her, staring at the painting across from her bed, but Beatrice was certain he wasn't really seeing it. "Yes. He's dead now, too."

For the first time, she allowed herself to relax, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. "I don't remember much about the first time they woke me up," she said thoughtfully. "Zola told me what happened. There was someone else with him—I think his name was Karpov. The second time…Pierce wanted to meet me, I think. But then they—Pierce and Zola—started panicking and saying that the…the  _asset_ had escaped. So I ran. But then  _he_ found me. His hair was longer. And his face…it was so empty."

She saw Steve glance sideways at her and then back down again, bowing his head. "I know," he said quietly.

"That must have been what they were planning to do to me, too. Erase my memories like they did to Bucky." She was silent for a long moment. "But they couldn't. Something went wrong."

"Or right," Steve said, with a faint, humorless grin.

Beatrice glanced away, staring down at her hands. "Before you and… _Bucky_ came to rescue me on the train, Zola did something to me with the Tesseract. He said that its power flows through me or—or something."

 _That_ caused Steve to straighten up; he went rigid and something close to disbelief crossed his face. "The Tesseract?" he repeated.

She nodded. "Ivan told me that it belonged to the Asgardians. The Norse gods. I didn't believe him at first, but after all that's happened to us I don't think there's much I  _wouldn't_ believe anymore."

Steve, whose mouth had been hanging slightly open, suddenly closed it with a snap and gave a short laugh, amusement briefly crossing his face. "Well, I can tell you that he was right."

"So they do exist? Asgardians and gods and…and aliens?"

"Actually, all three at the same time," Steve said dryly, before his expression turned serious again. "Fury took some blood samples before you were woken up. If there's anything strange there the results will show it."

"And what if there is?" she whispered, but she could already see the answer in Steve's eyes: he didn't know any more than she did. Beatrice forced her voice to stop trembling as she added, "What will happen to me?"

Steve shrugged. "Now that S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't exist anymore, probably nothing. There's not much Fury can do aside from keeping an eye on you. He wants you to stay with me for a while."

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, trying to hide her relief. "So you're stuck with me. Again."

"That's not how I would put it," Steve retorted, with a crooked grin. "Here, I meant to give you this before." Beatrice watched curiously as he reached into the pocket of his rumpled leather jacket and drew out a small, delicate bracelet: it was nearly dwarfed by his large hands.

"My bracelet!" she exclaimed in delight, holding out her own hands as he dropped it into her open palm.  _Bucky's bracelet._ It looked none the worse for wear; the charms still sparkled in the light and the clasp was still intact. She looped it around her wrist and examined it; wearing the bracelet felt more natural to her now than  _not_ wearing it—she felt as if a piece of her had gone missing without realizing it.

"Fury found it while searching the laboratory," Steve explained. "I told him it was yours."

"Thank you," Beatrice said fervently, resisting the urge to hug him, and swung her legs over the side of the bed so that she was facing him, their knees almost touching. She still wore the clothes Fury had given her; although she had worn trousers often enough working in the factory, these ones felt strange and too tight against her legs, whereas the fabric of her sweater was too soft. The "futuristic" exhibits she'd seen at fairs as a child had gotten women's fashion all wrong.

She hesitated before asking her next question, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer or not. Steve waited patiently for her to speak, and when Beatrice finally mustered up the courage she glanced cautiously up at him and said, "Do you know what happened to Henry?"

Steve had always been a terrible liar, and Beatrice could tell he was weighing his chances before finally accepting that she knew him too well. "Yes," he answered, albeit cautiously.

"Is he still alive?" Beatrice pressed. "Have you met him?"

Steve nodded, but he didn't meet her eyes. There was something he wasn't telling her. "Listen, Beatrice, I have a lot to explain—"

"Good luck with that," a coolly amused voice sounded from the doorway. Beatrice's head snapped around as her eyes landed on the redheaded woman who had jabbed the syringe into her arm, and she automatically stiffened. The woman smirked as if she could read Beatrice's mind as she moved farther into the room, her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a pair of jeans similar to Beatrice's, only hers were darker, and a light gray jacket. Her hair was unstyled and perfectly straight, ending sharply at her shoulders.

"Natasha," Steve said in a warning tone. Beatrice's eyes flickered back and forth between them in confusion.

The woman called Natasha didn't seem fazed in the least; she strode to the end of Beatrice's bed and stared down at her with catlike eyes. "You're waiting for me to apologize for tranquilizing you," she said, sounding amused.

"What? No—"

"You do the innocent look well," she said in approval, looking almost amused. "I can see where Steve gets it from. Look, I was just following orders."

"And we both know there's nothing more you love to do," Steve shot back.

Natasha's eyes glittered as she turned her gaze back to him. "I have to keep my reflexes sharp somehow. By the way, Sam wants to talk to you. He's outside."

The change in Steve's demeanor was palpable; he immediately straightened up, glancing from Beatrice to stare at Natasha. "What did he say?"

She shrugged. "Nothing, really. Just that he thinks it's probably a good idea to stay here for a little while. Besides, Fury wants to make sure she's recovered before running tests on her."

"Tests?" Beatrice echoed with a gulp.

Beside her, Steve had gone rigid; Beatrice saw his knuckles whiten. "Why are  _you_ still here, Natasha?" he asked, a slight edge to his voice.

"To pass on Sam's message, of course," she replied, her eyes widening in false innocence. "He would have come to talk to you himself, but I volunteered. Besides, I'm just as curious to see her as the next person. She would have been the talk of S.H.I.E.L.D. no matter what."

Beatrice shifted uncomfortably in the blankets. "What is S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway?" she asked.

Natasha reached into her jacket and pulled out a thick manila envelope, dropping it onto the bed by Beatrice's feet. "These files will explain it better than I can," she answered. "And in case you're wondering, Fury isn't bothered about telling you all this just yet because it's not likely you'll be allowed to leave for a while."

"I'm not allowed to leave?" Beatrice demanded. She felt her pulse speed up again. "But—"

"You were found cryogenically frozen in an abandoned Hydra laboratory," Natasha said cryptically. "It's natural that we'd have some questions."

Beatrice fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, hoping her discomfort didn't show on her face. Her mind was whirling with questions, none of which she had the answers to. She looked back and forth between Steve and Natasha warily. Steve had said that all of them could be trusted, but was that enough? Still, Beatrice told herself, there was no use mulling over it. She had no choice.

"Relax," Natasha said, apparently noticing her distress. "It won't be anything like Hydra. There really are no better people for the job. I expect you'll be fine within a week or two. Of course, what happens to you then is up for debate…"

"Nat," Steve said wearily, and dragged his hand across his face. For the first time, Beatrice saw how exhausted he looked: there were dark purple circles under his eyes and his clothes were rumpled, as if he had slept in them several times in a row. "I don't think terrifying her is what Fury had in mind."

Natasha's lips pursed in apparent displeasure. "What makes you think Fury sent me?"

"I wasn't aware you were such a calming bedside presence," Steve retorted. Beatrice's head swiveled back and forth as she watched their banter, utterly baffled and slowly sinking back into her pillows. She couldn't remember Steve being so forward with any woman before, not even Peggy Carter.

"Fine, Rogers. Fury wanted someone else to be here when she woke up in case she panicked again. Clint offered, but I wanted to see her for myself." She fixed her unyielding gaze on Beatrice again. "And of course I had to pass on Sam's message. He wants to talk to you as soon as possible."

"Sam. Right." Steve began to stand up, but met Beatrice's eyes and hesitated. "Can he wait? I haven't told Beatrice anything yet."

"Don't worry about me," Beatrice said quickly, feigning a smile. "I doubt I'll be going anywhere anytime soon."

He made to leave, pausing only to give Natasha a loaded glance. His eyes moved over Beatrice once more, and she thought she saw a muscle in his jaw clench before he quietly slipped out of the room.

"He'll be back soon," Natasha said, obviously noticing the way Beatrice's eyes followed him all the way out. "He would have put up more of a fuss if it hadn't been so urgent." She did not move to vacate Steve's chair; she merely took another step forward, her arms still crossed and her expression guarded. Beatrice noticed that she was wearing a delicate silver chain around her neck, a tiny arrow dangling just above her collarbone.

"I don't think I've ever seen Steve as tense as he was when he heard about you," Natasha remarked lightly. "And I've seen him pretty tense."

Beatrice stared up at her. "Was he?"

"He carried you here and didn't leave your side until now." Natasha's tone was flat; it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. "I owe Steve. The least I can do is make life a bit easier for him."

"I don't know," Beatrice said dryly, again glancing back at the door. "He's the kind of person who purposely makes things difficult."

For the first time, Natasha seemed to relax, and she gave Beatrice something that was close to a smile. "Guess you did know him after all," she replied, and patted the file she'd tossed onto the bed. "Everything you need to know is in there."

"That I  _need_  to know? What does that mean?"

Natasha's smile grew thin. "You'll find out eventually," she said, and snatched another syringe from her inside pocket. Before Beatrice could protest, Natasha's hand had flipped her wrist over and stuck it into the inside of her elbow. Beatrice watched in horror as another clear liquid slowly seeped into her veins. As soon as it entered her bloodstream, she could feel the heavy fatigue beginning to close on her again. She was completely powerless.

"It's just morphine," Natasha said into her ear as Beatrice's struggles grew weaker. "I don't usually do this. Fury's orders," she continued, looking as if she was very much enjoying some inside joke. "You'll wake up in a couple of hours, don't worry."

"Don't you think I've had enough sleep?" Beatrice muttered. She had just enough time to see Natasha's smirk before she again fell into an uneasy slumber.

* * *

She awoke gasping, the sheets tangled around her waist and her arms crushing the pillow. Half-remembered dreams tugged at the edges of her mind; they felt more substantial than the shadowy twilight she found herself in. The bedroom was dark and quiet, the lights dimmed and the door closed to give the illusion of night, though Beatrice had absolutely no idea what time it really was. She wondered when Natasha had left and if Steve had come back only to find her unconscious yet again.

There was a piece of bread and an apple sitting on her bedside table. Beatrice hadn't realized how hungry she actually was until seeing food: she had no idea how long it had been since she'd last eaten. Carefully sitting up and untangling the sheets from her legs, she picked up the plate and hungrily devoured the food, glad there was no one around to witness her attacking it like a starving animal. When it was empty—even the crumbs had been eaten—Beatrice stared around the empty room, her eyes landing on the file that was still on the edge of the bed. After running a hand through her messy hair, she slowly got to her feet and took an experimental step forward, relieved when her legs didn't wobble. Her mind and heart were both racing, and she kept replaying her conversations with Steve and Natasha. She had been unconscious more than not since she'd been awoken, and it would be next to impossible for her to go back to sleep again, but she didn't fancy spending any more time alone with her thoughts.

She rounded the bed, her bare feet sinking into the soft carpet, and cautiously pulled aside the curtain covering the window, unsure of what she would find—unsure of what the future would look like.

Beatrice was almost disappointed when she saw nothing; nothing, that was, aside from a bare field stretching out into the horizon, occasionally punctuated by a tree. It was dark outside, and although she couldn't see the moon, it provided just enough illumination for her to see that they were nowhere near any kind of civilization. "A safe house in Geneva" had evidently meant "A safe house  _near_ Geneva". At least that explained the location of the painting hanging on the wall.

It was a miracle, wasn't it, that she and Bucky and Steve had not only made it out of the war alive, they had made it into the next  _century_ , but it hadn't come without its price. She swallowed uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest even though she wasn't cold. She hadn't even asked Steve how  _he_ was still alive; she'd been too caught up in thinking about Bucky and her own predicament that it had never occurred to her something must have happened to Steve, too. Could he have been captured by Hydra, too? Clearly his memories were still intact, but then again so were hers. He was familiar with Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D., so he had to have been around for a while. What if  _nothing_ had happened to him? Beatrice thought with a horrible lurch in the pit of her stomach. What if he had lived the entire seventy years, unchanging? The effects of the serum when it came to physical aging were largely unknown, and Beatrice certainly hadn't been around long enough to find out for herself. So had they—she, Bucky, and Steve—stopped aging altogether? Surely if it had happened to Steve, it was the case with Beatrice and Bucky as well. After all, Zola's serum couldn't be that different from Erskine's, could it?

She thought of the first picture she'd ever seen Steve draw, the one of his Flatbush neighborhood and the bleak rows of tenements stretching forever onward. The inscription on that piece had been a quote by William Blake; Steve's secret love of poetry hadn't been known to her then.

_Whate'er is born of Mortal Birth_

_Must be consumed with the Earth_

"All who live must die," Beatrice whispered to herself. But what if she didn't— _couldn't_ —die? Had Zola turned her, turned  _Bucky,_ into something that was no longer human?

She let the curtain fall back into place, heart hammering. The room suddenly felt stifling, as if the walls were closing in on her. Backing away, she headed towards the door. She half-expected it to be locked, and was pleasantly surprised when it swung open under her touch. Cautiously stepping forward, she found herself in a narrow hallway. Like the bedroom, it was carpeted; there were several doors across the corridor, all of them ajar. Beatrice crept forward to peer into each of them, making as little noise as possible: one led to a bathroom, and the other two led to bedrooms that were as curiously impersonal as Beatrice's own—they held little more than a bed and a nightstand. There were no pictures on the walls aside from generic paintings; no distinctive marks of an owner. The house could have belonged to anyone and no one.

When Beatrice reached the landing, she placed one hand on the banister and peered down to the main floor. The house was just as dark as the night outside, but she could hear voices floating out faintly from behind some unseen door.

"…tell her everything." This was Steve, sounding hesitant and unsure.

 _"Everything?"_ Natasha replied smoothly; Beatrice wasn't sure what to make of her tone.

"She's going to have to find out about all of this sometime. It's either you or Fury, Cap." The voice was unfamiliar, but it was definitely a man speaking. She guessed it was one of the two others who had been in the laboratory.

"Astute observation, Clint." Natasha's voice was wry. "Whoever it is, Fury's going to want to question her as soon as possible. He's operating with very limited resources."

"And whose fault is that?" the one named Clint muttered.

"All I'm saying is that maybe we should explain things to her slowly," Steve said plaintively. "I know  _I_  would have appreciated that."

"Yeah, but we're not exactly sending her out into Manhattan, either," Clint stated.

"But she's not you, Steve," Natasha pointed out. "Also, she's listening to this conversation. Just a heads-up."

Beatrice was certain she hadn't made a sound, but there was nothing she could do about it now, so she reluctantly descended the remainder of the staircase and rounded the corner into a living-room populated by four other people: Steve was standing at the opposite end, leaning against the mantel of an empty fireplace, and Natasha was sitting on a deep burgundy couch—the only one who looked as if she had expected Beatrice's arrival. The brown-haired man with the bow and arrows was perched on the arm of the couch—he was older than Beatrice had first thought, with lines beginning to cross his face; and the man who had arrived with Steve was standing nearer to the corner of the room, next to a large clock that proclaimed the time as being shortly after midnight. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows.

Steve was the first one to speak. "Beatrice," he exclaimed. "Are you all right? Can't you sleep?"

"Oh, I can sleep fine," she replied, and looked pointedly at Natasha. "I guess the sedative just wore off."

"Sedative?" Steve asked, looking back and forth between them. "What are you talking about?"

"Bring it up with Fury, not me," Natasha said in a long-suffering tone, but it was clear that Steve wasn't going to wait.

"This really isn't going to make her trust us any more, you know," Steve said in a hard voice. "If you keep knocking her out like this—"

"And yet I'm still here," Beatrice interrupted him, and he thankfully quieted. "I probably needed it the first time, anyway."

Steve uncrossed his arms and strode over to her, giving her a passable attempt at a reassuring smile. "You've already met Natasha. This is Clint Barton—" he nodded at the man next to Natasha, who raised a hand in greeting, "—And Sam Wilson." The other man standing nearer to the windows smiled easily at her.

Beatrice gave both of them a nod before turning back to Steve. "Look, I want to know everything," she said firmly. "I can handle it. I'm not going to—to pass out or anything again, I promise."

She heard Steve take a deep breath, and he reached up a hand to rub his face—stalling for time. "Fine," he said. "But I—I don't even know where to start. It might take a while…"

"I'm listening," she said.


	36. XXXVI

Beatrice sat on the edge of her bed, the thick S.H.I.E.L.D. folder Natasha had given her lying open on her lap. It had been nearly a day since she'd woken up at the safe house, and despite the wealth of information she now had, both from Steve and from studying the files, she still felt just as lost as she had been upon opening her eyes.

Although she was now up-to-date on what exactly the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division _was_ —an intelligence agency that had grown out of the SSR after the war, founded by none other than Peggy Carter and Howard Stark—she still had no idea what exactly they _did._ According to Steve, the agency had been destroyed and forced underground after Hydra's infiltration of it was discovered, and the subsequent investigations of the bases had led to Beatrice's discovery. And that was only the declassified information she knew. It was making her head pound; she couldn't process everything at once. Steve, who had been living in this new world for two years, admitted that even he was still lost sometimes, which didn't give Beatrice much hope for herself.

She'd been poring over the files for hours, determined to soak up as much information as she possibly could. It was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that she had actually been _frozen_ —in a coma-like state, but just alive enough so that her body and mind were preserved—similar to how Steve had been trapped in the ice off Greenland for almost seventy years, only her case was intentional.

Beatrice surveyed the pages that were spread around her; whoever put together the folder had evidently designed it with her in mind. Many familiar faces appeared among the files, and she'd carefully set those ones aside to study them more closely.

Peggy was now an elderly woman living just outside of London. She'd married a fellow agent five years after the war ended, and their children and grandchildren were scattered across the globe. Angie had recently passed away but had, for all intents and purposes, lived a long and full life. Caroline and Ruth had both married their sweethearts and died within a year of each other in the nineteen-eighties. Rebecca had become a widow very young—Ernest was killed at the beginning of the Vietnam War, unable to avoid being drafted—but she still resided in Brooklyn. Howard had died in a car crash some twenty years ago along with his wife, leaving his only son as the sole inheritor of Stark Industries. Ivan had been killed in the sixties in Moscow, for reasons unknown—likely a mission gone wrong, but he would have been elderly anyway, Beatrice thought with some confusion.

And…Henry.

His file was the strangest of all; while he was by far the youngest of those whom Beatrice had known and loved, any information about him was scarce. He'd moved to America after Ivan's death and joined S.H.I.E.L.D., quickly rising through the ranks until he'd become one of their most respected field agents, traveling between the United States and Russia as a double agent like Ivan; according to the file, he had retired at the end of the Cold War and now lived alone in Washington. But unlike the others, any personal information about him was scarce—no mention of a wife or children. Perhaps, like Ivan, he had been married to his work. Still, the lack of detail was strange.

Beatrice flipped over the page she'd been studying, a brief summary of what was known as the Battle of New York, and a large, full-color picture of Steve jumped out at her. She could tell he had been grimacing just before the photograph was taken. The file was primarily focused on his involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D. rather than him as an individual. Beatrice studied another picture of him with the Avengers, of which Steve was a member, along with Natasha and Clint Barton. A smile darted over Beatrice's face as she studied his appropriately patriotic, star-spangled costume, but it immediately disappeared when she saw the next file waiting to be read.

 _JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES,_ it boldly stated in large block letters, and as Beatrice smoothed out the paper, a photograph fluttered out onto the floor. She leaned over to pick it up and her eyes landed on her own face. It was one of the pictures she had brought with her to Europe, taped to the inside of her suitcase. It must have been retrieved by the SSR—and later S.H.I.E.L.D.—after she'd been declared missing in action and presumed dead. This particular one was of her and Bucky sitting on a bench at Prospect Park. Bucky's easy grin was apparent even in the grainy image, and Beatrice had turned her head away from him, instead staring at Steve behind the camera. The picture was slightly blurred owing to the movement of its subjects—neither Bucky nor Beatrice had been sitting completely still—but she remembered the moment well. Bucky had stolen Rebecca's camera in revenge for her taking the family car to sneak out and visit Ernest, and they'd spent the afternoon clogging the film with unwanted pictures—a tree here, a group of pretty girls there. Rebecca had been furious, Beatrice thought with a tiny smile, remembering the younger girl's reaction when she'd found out what her brother had done. But the few pictures that had been taken of her, Steve and Bucky were worth every bit of it. Things had been so much simpler then, though it hadn't seemed like it at the time. Beatrice's biggest worry had been struggling with her growing feelings for Bucky. She imagined telling the girl in the picture that within a year, she would be engaged to him, would be trapped in a prison cell with him while she was tortured for information, would feel the exhilarating high of his body pressed against hers, tasting brandy on his breath while he struggled to drown his ghosts in drink. Neither of them had ever been the same after that, not really. Bucky's eyes had grown harder, the lines around his face tighter, his humor turning blacker than death. He had held her so carefully when they'd been at the dance hall in Brooklyn, his mouth gentle, almost hesitant, as he'd kissed her for the first time. And the last time they had kissed, at the Whip & Fiddle just before Beatrice confronted Lorraine, was desperate, urgent; there had been no softness to it at all. Bucky's lips had been hard and insistent against hers, as if he was starving, as if he couldn't bear to let her go. The intensity of it, of him, had taken Beatrice's breath away, and even as she was leaving she'd known he was still watching her. She wondered if, even then, there had been a small part of both of them that knew it had been their last goodbye. Maybe they had always known it couldn't last.

The words on the page had begun to blur together, and it wasn't until a drop of water splashed on the edge that Beatrice realized she was crying. She sniffled and wiped away the tears, knowing it would be ten times as difficult to put herself back together once she fell apart. Blinking furiously, she forced herself to continue on through Bucky's file.

"Declared MIA in December of 1944…notification sent to next of kin Mrs. Rebecca Proctor of Brooklyn…" A copy of the condolence letter was even attached to the file; Beatrice could only skim it. God, S.H.I.E.L.D. knew _everything_ about Bucky: his birthday, his dates of enlistment and deployment, his address, the schools he'd attended—even his _grades_ were included. Beatrice began to feel uneasy as the list continued; how on earth had they gotten hold of such personal information? She couldn't imagine Rebecca giving it up willingly.

But it wasn't until she came across a single photograph taped to the back of the paper, captioned with the words " _The Winter Soldier Project",_ did she realize the extent of what Hydra had done to him. And there was Bucky as he must have looked after the fall, lying naked on an operating table, his mangled left arm nearly torn off and blood congealing into a puddle on the floor. His eyes were closed, his hair matted and stuck to his head, his entire left side covered in blood.

Beatrice quickly flipped the file over and covered her mouth, staring blankly at the wall in front of her, trying not to vomit. She desperately wanted to forget what she had just seen, the image of him on that table like an animal being prepared for dissection, Hydra doctors about to cut him open. _"Bucky,"_ she whispered brokenly to the empty room, and the tears finally began to spill down her cheeks as she began to sob, shaking so violently she thought she would fall over. Whatever had happened to him…what they had done to him was her fault. If she hadn't lost the fight against Lorraine, Bucky and Steve wouldn't have had to go after her and he never would have fallen from the train. He would have chosen death over becoming a pawn of Hydra's, Beatrice knew. He would rather have been killed than lose his memories.

But then she thought of what Steve had told her: "He remembered me. I know he did." So did that mean his brainwashing wasn't permanent? Had Hydra only been able to suppress his memories rather than erasing them completely? She remembered the way he had wrapped his arm around her throat, cutting off her air supply, choking her while she'd struggled and gasped against him…the way he had strode so calmly and purposefully toward her, like a lion stalking its prey…she gasped, her hand flying to her bare throat. The imprint of his fingers had long since disappeared, but she could still feel a phantom touch.

But he—Bucky—still had to be in there somewhere. He had to. He couldn't have been made into Hydra's perfect weapon and not gone down without a fight. Beatrice guessed that most of his assassinations had been high-ranking political or military figures, since they posed the greatest threats, but had his targets been women and children too? She doubted Hydra cared much about collateral damage, and felt ill at the thought.

"Even if he's broken free, he's not the same person he once was," Natasha had interjected in the middle of Steve's story. "That kind of conditioning always leaves a mark."

While Beatrice was aware that she was correct, she couldn't help but feel a spark of annoyance toward the other woman. Natasha hadn't known Bucky like Beatrice and Steve did. What could _she_ possibly know about what he had gone through? Beatrice was wary of her, and for good reason—she had been tranquilized twice, even if it was under Fury's orders. Steve seemed to trust her, but Beatrice didn't even know if she should trust _Steve_ anymore. He was different from the man she had known—not just in Brooklyn, but during the war as well. Now he was guarded, wary, always tense as if he expected to spring into battle at any moment. Beatrice had the sense that he was close to his breaking point, and she had no idea what would happen if Steve finally broke. She knew it was illogical, but she couldn't help but think that she was just an inconvenience to him, interrupting his search for Bucky. Yes, she had once lived with him for six months, but Bucky was his best friend; his brother. Steve would go after him no matter what, heedless of the consequences. And not for the first time, Beatrice wondered if both Bucky and Steve had gone to a place she couldn't follow.

A knock at the door had her quickly snapping the folder shut and tossing it aside, pretending to have been sitting quietly. "Come in," she called, hoping her voice didn't waver, and wasn't at all surprised when Steve himself appeared in the doorway. Beatrice leapt to her feet, her mind swimming with everything that had been crammed into it during the past day, and saw Steve relax ever so slightly.

"Come to change the lock on my door?" Beatrice asked him. She was only half-joking, knowing that she could escape if she really wanted to. She wasn't being monitored all the time—that she knew about, at least—but she was also aware that she wouldn't get very far wandering the countryside before someone found her again. Fury—wherever _he_ was; she hadn't seen him since waking up in the laboratory—had chosen this spot well.

Steve scoffed and leaned against the doorframe, but Beatrice thought she saw a flash of guilt in his eyes. "We're not locking you in," he said firmly. "You can leave anytime, you know."

She raised an eyebrow. "What will Fury say about that?"

This time Steve didn't even bother to hide his displeasure; he shifted so that the bulk of his weight was on his shoulder and his eyes visibly narrowed. Beatrice noticed the tension immediately; he was trying and failing to put up a calm front. "Fury has no say in this," he said, clenching his jaw. "He's not the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore."

"Well, I'm not going to leave," she assured him, though if she was planning on it she would have already done so, and Steve knew that perfectly well. "I have nowhere to go, anyway."

"You're always welcome here, Beatrice," he said steadfastly, with a lopsided smile, and her chest suddenly felt as warm as if she had drunk an entire cup of hot tea in one go.

"You can't imagine how grateful I am to hear that," she said truthfully, and glanced over at the folder lying haphazardly on the other side of the bed. "Have you read it?" she asked him, her voice quivering. "Did you see what…what they did to Bucky?"

Steve's expression darkened, and he moved further into the room, staring down at the file with a mixture of loathing and a terrible heaviness, as if the weight of the entire world rested on his shoulders. "Yes," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you had to see it."

Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath. "I wanted to know everything. I _needed_ to know everything."

He met her eyes again, and there was something cautious in them, almost wary. "Sam got a tip earlier this morning," he began, and paused, as if he was deliberating the words before barreling ahead anyway. "Bucky's here. In Switzerland."

Beatrice felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of her. "W—what?" she asked shakily. "Is that what Natasha said he wanted to talk to you about?"

Steve nodded. "We've been monitoring a few places for a while, and yesterday afternoon a plane from Washington landed in Geneva with a passenger that matched Bucky's physical description. Sam decided to wait until he was sure it actually was Bucky before gathering more intel. And there was a break-in at an old Hydra facility not far from here about an hour ago."

She forced herself to nod as calmly as possible, determined not to betray the thrills of both relief and dread that simultaneously shot through her. "An _old_ Hydra facility?" she questioned.

"It's outdated information," Steve clarified. "The building's not been used in decades—certainly not in this century. He must be going off of what he remembers."

The implication that Bucky remembered _something_ was enough to calm her, and she was relieved to hear that her voice was steady as she asked, "Were there any deaths?"

"No," Steve said, and she sagged in relief. "Two detainees at the airport are reporting they came face-to-face with him but he let them go."

Beatrice frowned. "Why would he spare them?"

"I don't know," Steve said, with a tiny, frustrated shake of his head. "He's probably searching for as much information about himself as possible—that's why he was at the museum. And the trail must have brought him straight here."

"You're going after him, then," Beatrice said. She crossed the room and stared up at Steve's prematurely lined face; stress was set so deeply into the set of his mouth, the creases around his eyes, that it seemed to have become a permanent part of him. "Take me with you."

His mouth tightened. "You don't have to come along, Beatrice. It could be dangerous. It _will_ be dangerous."

"But you came in here to give me the choice," she insisted. "Steve, I appreciate your concern, but you're hardly the most appropriate person to be warning me _away_ from something. I need to see him. I need to see Bucky. Even if he's not—even if he's not the same." She could barely get the words out past the sudden lump in her throat, and forced herself not to cry. She had already done enough of that.

"I know," Steve said quietly, and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it like he used to do so often with Bucky. She smiled up at him through watery eyes, knowing he was trying to comfort her in the best way he could. "We'll find him, Beatrice. I promise."

For the first time since she'd lost the fight against Lorraine days ago—but it hadn't been days, had it? It had been years, seventy years—Beatrice felt hope. It was intoxicating, almost dizzying in its suddenness and intensity; she'd almost forgotten what it felt like. She might have had to leave everything she'd known behind, but she wasn't _alone._ Steve was with her, and Bucky was here, too, somewhere, as changed as he was. And she was no longer in Hydra's grasp. Still, it was too much for her to process at once. She had to compartmentalize her thoughts or risk breaking down in front of Steve again, who had much more important things to do than comfort her.

"Fury's not going to let you do this," she told him, although she herself could care less about what Fury thought. If the supposed ex-director of S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't even bother checking up at his own safe house every once in a while, she didn't see what business he had telling Steve what he could and couldn't do.

By the looks of things, Steve was thinking along the same lines as her. "Fury doesn't have to know," he said resolutely.

Beatrice thought of the other two agents in the house—Steve had said they were partners, but she didn't know if he'd meant in the professional sense, the romantic sense, or both. "What about Natasha and Clint?"

"They're on an assignment for Fury," he answered. "They won't be back until tomorrow at the earliest."

Beatrice knew it must seem as if she was stalling for time, and in a way, she supposed she was. She was waiting for Steve to tell her that it might not be Bucky after all, that it might be a trap, that he was going to forbid her to accompany them. But she could tell just by looking at his face that he wasn't about to forbid her from going anywhere. Maybe there was even some part of him that _wanted_ her to come along, now that she was the only other person alive who understood him and Bucky. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

"All right," she said, and ducked past him out the door, trying to ignore the cold sweat coating her palms. "Let's go."

* * *

The car was black and sleek, the engine purring so quietly that Beatrice wasn't sure it was even running at all. The seats were leather and bizarrely soft—Sam told her it had _heated seating_ ; what kind of idea was that?—and the dashboard glowed with an eerie neon light, displaying the time, speed, gas mileage, and even a map of the nearby area flashed on a small screen. Beatrice stared at it in awe, and couldn't resist peppering Sam with questions despite never having been interested in automobiles before. She could sense Steve's amusement from the backseat as she asked Sam yet again how he didn't get distracted by all the glowing numbers and symbols.

"It's easier than you might think," Sam repeated patiently; as if to prove it, he hadn't taken his eyes off the winding road ahead of them once. He was a calm, steady presence; Beatrice could easily see why he and Steve got along. They'd only known each other for a number of weeks, Steve had said, but there was no doubting the loyalty that already existed between the two men. It was a different dynamic than the one he'd had with Bucky, but Beatrice suspected it was a welcome one nonetheless.

She lapsed into silence, not wanting to bother Sam anymore, and leaned her head back against the headrest. Soft jazz music filled the car—Sam had asked if she wanted to hear something called rock and roll, and Beatrice readily agreed until Steve had put his foot down, saying that there were some things one had to get used to slowly. Now the air was thick with feigned nonchalance as they carefully avoided bringing up the topic of their destination.

Beatrice stared at the road ahead; the bright headlights illuminated the forest flashing past them on both sides, occasionally interrupted by a house. She hadn't seen another soul since leaving the safe house, which unsettled her for reasons she couldn't quite explain. All her life, she had been surrounded by people: growing up in a crowded tenement in New York, and then going off to spend two years in a war where there had never been a shortage of nurses and soldiers, had at least given her a sense of comfort that she wasn't entirely on her own. Then, she had never felt completely alone, but was often lonely. Now, although she wasn't lonely—she had Steve, after all, and Sam, who seemed like someone she could grow to care for—she had never felt more alone. She was isolated, an _other_ who had been in Hydra's clutches for so long that Fury thought they might have corrupted her without her knowing it. When Steve had been discovered in the ice, he was a hero reborn, and the public had been eager to embrace him again. Nobody knew who Beatrice was, and she felt as if she'd had to reintroduce herself to Steve, who had been one of those who knew her best. It was as though the Beatrice who was locked in the cryochamber wasn't the same woman who had come out of it.

"What does it say about him at the Smithsonian?" she asked hesitantly, breaking the silence. "About Bucky." It was beyond strange that events she had experienced less than a week ago were now displayed at a museum, remembered only by a select few.

Sam glanced into the rearview mirror, and Beatrice knew he and Steve were exchanging a look. "Just the basics," Steve replied after a moment. "That he was born in Brooklyn and served in the 107th Infantry before his unit was captured by Hydra and later liberated."

"By you," Sam interjected, and the two men shared another meaningful glance.

"Yeah," Steve admitted; Beatrice pictured him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "It mainly focuses on his time as a sniper for the Howling Commandos." He paused, and she could tell he was deliberating his next words. "There's also a dedication to you."

Beatrice's mind blanked for half a second, and she twisted around in her seat to stare at Steve. "W—what?" she stammered. "A dedication? To _me?"_

He nodded, a bit of color staining his cheeks. "I insisted on it. You were— _are_ —so integral, Beatrice, I couldn't just leave you out."

"What does it say?" she asked.

"That you were a nurse on the front lines," Steve explained. "That you were close with me before the serum. And that you were Bucky's fiancée."

Beatrice's heart was pounding ridiculously hard; she hoped Steve and Sam couldn't tell. "Do you think he read it?" she asked through a suddenly dry mouth.

"Probably, yeah," Steve admitted. "When we got the call from Natasha that you'd been found, he was definitely still close by. He would have heard your name at any rate."

Beatrice slowly turned back around to face the front, mind racing. How much did he remember? Had he recognized her name? She didn't dare to think that part of the reason why he was in Europe had to do with her. Her hand unconsciously reached up to touch her throat, and she shuddered, feeling a sudden wave of panic. If he had tried to kill _Steve_ …what were the chances he would try to kill her, too? Did he even know he had seen her once in Zola's laboratory, or had that been wiped from him like everything else? How much of _Bucky_ was left?

"We're here," Sam said in a low voice, and Beatrice was thankfully distracted as the car slowed to a stop, gravel crunching under the wheels. She hadn't noticed the forest thinning out, to be replaced by a street lined with low brick buildings, their foundations crumbling. Colorful graffiti covered many of the walls, and the windows were either cracked or completely missing. It was obvious this area hadn't been populated in quite some time. She raised her gaze higher, where the dim outlines of the Alps were visible in the distance, bleeding into the purple sky. It must be nearing nighttime again.

Steve was the first one out of the car, coming over to open Beatrice's door for her, but she guessed the gesture was just as much protective as it was polite. He was scanning the area, searching for any signs of a disturbance, his expression wary and alert.

"He's here, Sam," Steve said under his breath as Sam rounded the car to join them. "I know he is." Without waiting for the skeptical response that was sure to come, he continued, "Stay here with Beatrice until I give the all-clear."

"What about your shield?" Sam asked as Steve began to walk away.

He turned his head to call back, "I'm going in as Steve Rogers, not Captain America."

Sam waited until he was out of earshot before swearing under his breath and asking, "Has he always been this idiotic when it comes to Barnes?"

"Yes," Beatrice replied at once.

She watched Steve's retreating back until he reached the door and shoved it open with his shoulder; it immediately swung open and he disappeared inside the building, leaving Beatrice alone with Sam. She looked up at him curiously, and would have been amused had the situation not been so tense when she saw he was staring after Steve with an expression identical to her own.

"So what do we do?" she asked, hoping he would insist they go after Steve anyway.

"We wait," he replied, sounding just as thrilled as she was by the prospect. "Man, I should have brought my wings."

"Your what?"

He glanced over at her with a slight smirk. "I guess Steve didn't tell you about that one, huh? Well, it's a long—"

But he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before another pair of headlights lit up the fast-darkening sky and a car pulled up next to theirs. Sam straightened, his hand going to his pocket where Beatrice was sure a gun was concealed. For her part, she nervously looked back at the building, hoping for Steve's reappearance, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Two men dressed from head to toe in black emerged from the car and strode towards them; Beatrice instinctively took a step back so that she was behind Sam. The one who had been driving, who had dark eyes and a long, narrow face, barked something at them in what she recognized as German before switching to English. "You aren't supposed to be here," he said in a heavy accent. "This is private property."

"I didn't see a sign," Sam replied coolly. Beatrice admired his composure.

This time the second man, who was shorter and had a more muscular build, spoke up. "We won't ask what you're doing here if you leave the premises immediately," he warned. "I'm giving you thirty seconds."

Beatrice stared desperately at Sam, who was clearly steeling himself for a fight. His eyes flickered over to hers, and he inclined his head ever so slightly in the direction of the building. Before she could give him a nod in agreement, he sprung into action, his leg flying around to catch the first man in the back of the knee. Taken by surprise, he fell to the ground with a startled yell just as Sam whipped a handgun out of his pocket and cracked the second man over the head with it.

Beatrice turned on her heel and fled, sprinting toward the door where Steve had disappeared through. She could hear muffled grunts and shouts from behind her, and hoped that Sam would be able to incapacitate the men long enough for him to escape as well. By the sounds of it, it wouldn't take him very long.

She burst through the door, which easily opened under her strength, and stared wild-eyed around her. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light at once, and she was suddenly grateful for Zola's serum, as much as she despised the man. There was a staircase directly in front of her, with a long corridor stretching off to the right. Beatrice could have sworn she saw a shadow ghost across the floor. "S—Steve?" she asked, not caring how panicky she sounded, but there was no response.

Instead of waiting to see if her imagination had tricked her or not, she flew up the stairs, climbing higher and higher until the sound of her footsteps creaking on the old wood and her ragged breathing were the only things she could hear. She didn't stop to look as she passed each floor; something compelled her to continue climbing until she reached the very top, hoping to find a window where she could see if Sam was still outside.

The stairs ended abruptly after she had counted nine floors, and she found herself in a dark landing, the only light shining in through a broken window ahead of her, shards of glass littering the floor. Beatrice paused, her heart pounding in her ears, and felt a prickling on the back of her neck as if she was being watched. She whirled around, but her own reflection was the only thing that greeted her. Silence pressed on her ears.

She carefully made her way forward, her feet crunching on the shattered glass, and leaned out the window, searching the parking lot. Both cars were still present, and there were two bodies sprawled out several feet away from the vehicles. If Beatrice squinted, she could just make out the forms of the men—guards? Police?—who had confronted them. Sam was nowhere in sight; she prayed he had met up with Steve and they were coming to find her.

Something on the wall next to the window caught her attention, and Beatrice's gaze moved over to it. It was one word carved into the paint, messy and jagged as if it had been written with a knife:

_Strucker_

What did that mean? Was it a name? A foreign word? Beatrice traced her fingers across it, and flakes of paint spilled out from the carving, fluttering onto the floor. It was fresh.

Just as she came to this conclusion, the prickling on the back of her neck increased tenfold until she could no longer stand it. This time she didn't even check around her before she ran, bolting for the opposite corridor. She ran into the first room she saw, which appeared to have once been an office; filing cabinets lined the walls and the desk in the middle of the room was filled with papers. Beatrice ran to it and frantically began rifling through them, searching for a stapler, a letter-opener, anything that could conceivably be used as a weapon. She was beginning to despair when she came across a pair of scissors and eagerly snatched them up. One of the papers fluttering to the floor contained the phrase _PROJECT WINTER SOLDIER_ that she saw out of the corner of her eye; the scissors were suddenly forgotten as she snatched it up.

It was written in a scrawled, hurried script that was nearly impossible to decipher, and when Beatrice raised it closer to her face her heart sank when she realized it was completely in German. Her eyes desperately scanned the lines, searching for any sort of familiar word or phrase. She'd managed to pick up bits and pieces of the language while on the front lines, but not enough for anything more than a basic conversation—

And then her eyes caught on her own name, and it was all she could do not to gasp. _Beatrice Hartley. Steven Rogers._ Their names were listed several times down the paper, all appearing in the same sentence:

_Schreit er für sie. He screams for them._

It wasn't a file at all, but a log system, detailing Bucky's condition when he had been taken by Hydra after falling from the train. He had been calling out for her and Steve when he was lying on that table. How long had he done so before they wiped his memory, before he'd given up hope for good that he would ever see them again?

The noise was so quiet it was nearly imperceptible, her enhanced senses the only thing that alerted her to the disturbance, and she went still, her head snapping up as a soft creak echoed from somewhere outside the room. She quickly straightened up and dove out into the corridor, now determined to get out of the building as fast as possible. She would tell Steve about the papers—there was sure to be more valuable information in the pile she had left behind.

Beatrice had only reached the opposite corner when she glimpsed movement in her peripheral vision—a human figure standing perfectly still at the other end of the hallway. A long moment passed, and the other person didn't move, though Beatrice was certain they were staring straight at her. Just as she was about to retreat, they took a step forward and began to stride in her direction.

Stifling a gasp, she ducked back the way she had come and broke into a run. Whirling back around, she saw that she was still being pursued. She was sprinting away before her brain caught up with her, the walls and doors blending into one continuous blur. Beatrice didn't turn around to see where they were—her fight or flight instincts had finally caught up with her, and she'd chosen flight.

She skidded around the corner so fast that she hit the opposite wall, her hands reaching out to brace herself against the impact, and felt something give way under her weight. To her astonishment, the plaster had cracked, leaving an indentation in the wall. Beatrice was reminded of falling from the staircase at Castle Zemo, and the dent in the floor after she'd hit the ground—but she didn't have time to dwell on that now.

As soon as she'd recovered, she was off again, having spotted the staircase ahead of her. Her heart dropped when she heard footsteps ringing off the walls behind her, and prepared to duck if she heard gunshots. She prayed for someone—anyone—to rescue her.

Beatrice leapt onto the stairs and took the steps two at a time, pushing her legs forward as fast as they would go and praying that raw adrenaline would be enough to get her out of danger. She just had to find a way outside—

"Stop running," someone growled from behind her, and at the sound of Bucky's voice— _Bucky's—_ Beatrice came to an abrupt halt. But she had forgotten she was so high up and her momentum was still very much in action. Her foot caught on the railing and the floor suddenly disappeared from under her as she fell. The ground was solid concrete, and Beatrice barely had time to comprehend that she'd flipped right over the railing or prepare herself for the impact—

And then Bucky was suddenly under her, not making a sound as she landed in his grasp, her knee painfully slamming onto his metal arm. She winced, unable to move, as he carried her down the remainder of the stairs before dropping her unceremoniously on the ground. Despite her injured knee, Beatrice was somehow still able to scramble to her feet, but there was nowhere to run. He had her cornered.

"Bucky—please don't hurt me," she panted, the Winter Soldier's file still fresh in her memory, but her mind was only partly on the words as she greedily searched his face. He seemed taller than she remembered, brown hair falling over his achingly familiar eyes. He wore a dark green jacket and cargo pants, his hair tucked under a cap. Stubble coated his chin, and his eyes glinted with an almost feverish light as he stared down at her.

If he was going to kill her, as Beatrice had feared, why hadn't he done so already? Why not let her smash onto the stairs instead of catching her? Instead he was silent, his eyes boring into hers with an unsettling intensity. _Do you remember me?_ she wanted to ask, hoping the sound of her voice had triggered something in him. His expression was carefully blank, empty; she couldn't tell if there was anything left of the man she had loved— _still_ loved—behind his eyes, and that terrified her more than any torture Hydra could ever inflict.

His metal arm whirred as he moved his fingers to her upper arm—she flinched—but his grip was lighter than she expected. What shocked her most was the realization that his arm was vibranium. Like Steve's shield. The rarest metal on earth, Howard had once said. But where had Hydra gotten it from?

"I'm not going to hurt you," Bucky finally said, his voice low and now tinged with a slight accent that Beatrice couldn't quite place. "I just saved you."

She stared, wild-eyed, up at him. His face was whirling above her, and she sensed a panic attack coming on. His grip loosened, the muscles in his face relaxing somewhat. Beatrice concentrated on taking deep, even breaths. "I knew you," he whispered after a moment, his lips barely moving, and the side of his mouth twisted upwards in what could have been the ghost of a grimace.

"Yes, you did," she gasped. "It's me. It's Beatrice. I was your fiancée."

At this, he released his grip on her completely and drew back, shaking his hair out of his eyes, his chest heaving. There was something utterly _lost_ about him, as if he was a guard dog who no longer had orders. Whatever Hydra had done, they had nearly crushed him, if not entirely broken him. His eyes stayed locked on hers, and Beatrice slowly reached inside her pocket with shaking hands and drew out the crumpled piece of paper she had taken from the office. "Read this," she whispered. "It…it has information about you. About us."

His eyes didn't leave hers as he took the paper from her fingers. His eyebrows drew together and his lips parted slightly as he tilted his head to the side in something that was almost curiosity. "Beatrice?" he asked, and he seemed to stumble over the word, as if it was unfamiliar on his tongue.

The creak of a door opening sounded from above them, and before Beatrice could even blink, Bucky had disappeared, taking the paper with him. She was left with the memory of his gray eyes boring into hers as she leaned back against the wall again, resting her throbbing head on the cool concrete. All the fight had gone out of her.

Footsteps rang on the stairs above her, and Beatrice wearily glanced up when she heard a worried voice say her name. Steve and Sam were hurrying towards her, Steve kneeling down beside her at once while Sam took her wrist, feeling for her pulse. Beatrice didn't try to resist.

"What happened?" Steve asked urgently. He reached out and placed a hand on her knee, seeing that her leg was twisted at an awkward angle. The tendons flexed under his skin.

"Her vitals are fine," Sam murmured. "I think she's just in shock."

Beatrice's head was beginning to feel fuzzy, as if her thought process was slowing down. "Bucky's here," she whispered. "He…he just saved me."


	37. XXXVII

Bucky Barnes—or the man who had once been Bucky Barnes—crouched against the side of the abandoned Hydra base, hidden in the shadows, smoothing out the single piece of paper he carried in his flesh-and-blood hand. It was a warm spring evening, and yet the baseball cap stayed on his head, though his hair was soaked with sweat, and his jacket was zipped to his throat. If the heat bothered him, he gave no indication of it.

There was just enough light left in the sky to read the scribbled notes, and he could understand the German despite never having spoken a word of it before—at least that was what his scattered mind told him. Fragments of a life—lives?—were starting to come back to him, slowly but surely, like a dripping faucet. Often these fragments would come in the form of dreams, bloody and brutal, and always at the expense of later sleep. But it was the gut feelings that hit him the hardest—not the actual memories, but the emotions that came with them. A blond man, a petite brunette—

Bucky's breath hitched in his throat as he scanned the paper, his breathing becoming increasingly shallower as he continued to read. It wasn't until the page crumbled altogether in his metal fist, pieces slipping from between his fingers and fluttering onto the ground, that he finally looked up. His teeth were bared, his eyes red and wild. He resembled the cornered animal Alexander Pierce had once likened him to—now an animal without a leash, without restraints. The flash of mercy he had bestowed on the Hydra agents at the airport had vanished; the desire to save, to  _protect_ , as he had felt when he'd fished Steve Rogers out of the Potomac and caught Beatrice Hartley when she had fallen earlier that night had disappeared, to be replaced with an overwhelming, consuming rage. It wasn't the calm, calculated intent of the Winter Soldier, nor was it Bucky Barnes's desire for revenge. It was a hybrid of the two, a dangerous fury that had been born out of their fusion. Bucky Barnes had died the moment Zola clamped the first machine onto his head, and the Winter Soldier had died the moment Captain America said  _"I'm with you 'til the end of the line."_

The creature—was he even really a man anymore?—left in the empty hollows of both clenched his hands into fists and strode forward, disappearing into the forest that led to Geneva.

From the window of a nearby building, the two agents who had let Sam win against them watched the asset leave with satisfaction. "I'll give him a head start," the first one muttered, his hand resting against his gun.

"Careful," his partner warned. "Strucker wants him in one piece."

A loud, undignified snort echoed around the room. "What is Strucker planning to do with him anyway? Hydra no longer has any use for the Winter Soldier—not when we have the scepter and the twins."

"It doesn't matter if he's useful or not—he's the property of  _Hydra._ So is the girl." Dark eyes glittered as the taller man bore down on his shorter comrade, his mouth twisting into a sneer. "If we can get them both to Strucker tonight, he'll reward us."

A flicker of unease crossed the other agent's face. "And if we don't?"

"We will. Or at least  _I_ will. That's why he's sending me after the asset and you after the girl. She's an easy target." There was a loud click as the safety on his gun was disengaged. "And when have Strucker's plans ever failed?"

* * *

**Manhattan**

"Sir, I must inform you that it is nearly three o'clock A.M. and you have not slept in thirty-seven hours—"

Tony Stark didn't so much as glance up from the array of glowing monitors around him. "Mm-hm," he said idly, frowning at a seemingly random set of numbers that flashed across one of the screens. "J.A.R.V.I.S., run a scan on this data. I'm going to cross-reference the results with—"

"Of course, sir," the A.I. replied. "Miss Potts is also on her way upstairs."

Tony paused and raised his head as if he could somehow glare at the disembodied voice. "Funny," he said. "I could have sworn we had a talk where it was agreed that any matters concerning Pepper are to come  _first."_

"I apologize, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. said smoothly. "But I believe she just made the decision now, when she saw you were not in bed."

Tony raised one eyebrow as he tapped a pencil against the computer screen before scribbling something down on a nearby sheet of paper. "That's an excellent deduction, J.A.R.V.I.S.," he said lightly, holding the paper up to another computer and frowning at it. "I'm impressed. Can I ask how you came to that conclusion?"

There was an almost imperceptible beat of silence before J.A.R.V.I.S. answered. "Miss Potts told me, sir."

"Thought so," Tony remarked, pushing the chair back from the desk and crumpling the page up into a ball. "She's giving me advance notice. That can't be good."

The discarded paper was sent flying across the room, landing squarely in the wastebasket just as the door to the laboratory opened. Tony's expression immediately turned from triumphant to sheepish as Pepper Potts walked in, still carrying her purse. She dropped it on a nearby table and crossed her arms, staring at Tony with pursed lips. There was no need for her to speak first.

He flashed her a disarming grin that was familiar to anyone who had opened a tabloid in the past decade; unfortunately, Pepper was immune to his charms. "Good morning, honey," he said cheerily. "How was the meeting?"

"You would know if you'd bothered to leave this place at all in the last ten hours." Pepper sighed as she regarded the coffee cups and food wrappers littering the furniture. "Come to bed, Tony," she urged. "You promised you were done with all of this."

The dark-haired man ignored her second comment to wink suggestively at her. "Tempting offer," he commented. "I think I can free up my schedule for ten minutes. I'll put on some music and everything." With a casual snap of his fingers, Barry White began to croon from the stereo.

Pepper didn't even blink. "J.A.R.V.I.S., could you please disable the sound system?"

"Certainly, Miss Potts," the A.I. replied, and the laboratory was silent once again.

"Traitor," Tony muttered. Another set of indecipherable numbers flashed across the screen closest to him and he glanced back at his work. A particularly colorful string of curses followed his assessment. "Is this all you have?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. There are simply too many variables to come to any reliable conclusion."

Tony betrayed his first sign of exhaustion that night, resting his elbows on the table and dragging his hands through his hair. Pepper quietly moved further into the room, coming to a stop behind his chair and gently massaging his shoulders. He leaned back, relaxing into her touch. "You have no idea how good that feels," he sighed.

"Tell me what's going on," Pepper said. It was both a question and a command.

Tony was staring at the newest data obtained from J.A.R.V.I.S., his eyes glazing over. "Rogers has me working overtime after he and Romanoff decided to take down S.H.I.E.L.D. I'll give them points for theatricality, but then they decided to disappear off the grid, leaving some other poor bastard to clean up the mess—aka yours truly."

Pepper quirked an eyebrow.  _"Only_ you?"

"Technically, no, but I'm the only one who can do it properly." He tucked the pencil behind his ear and twisted his head to look up at Pepper. "What I'm about to tell you—Fury will personally bury my dead body if he knows I'm not keeping my mouth shut. Probably in New Jersey."

"I'm not listening at all," she said dryly.

Tony grinned at her, his face relaxing for a brief moment. "That's my girl," he said approvingly. "The other day I got a call from Romanoff asking for permission to borrow one of the company jets for a few days."

"You mean  _I_ got the call and forwarded the message on to you," Pepper interjected.

He blinked. "Right, yeah, I guess I did. So you know about that part. Anyway, I tracked the flight from D.C. to Geneva and had a look at some of the airport security footage—"

"You mean you  _hacked_ the security footage."

"Semantics," Tony said dismissively, waving a hand. "It wasn't even a challenge. I was disappointed. But instead of Romanoff, it was Rogers who was on that plane, along with another guy I didn't recognize. Facial scanning revealed that's ex-military, works at the VA, and was one of the first test subjects in the canceled EXO-7 Falcon program. That part's not important right now," he added, seeing that Pepper was about to ask. "So Rogers is buddies with this Wilson guy and took him to Switzerland, where I'm assuming they met up with Romanoff. I thought, hey, maybe they have a thing going. I'll admit it's a strange pairing, but who am I to judge? Geneva's pretty romantic—I'll take you there sometime. How's tomorrow sound?"

" _Tony…"_

"I'm getting to the point, sweetheart. Look, I would have dismissed it right then and there if Fury hadn't also contacted me. Said that he wanted me to analyze a blood sample taken from a girl who was recently discovered at an old Hydra facility."

Pepper paused in her massage. "Fury sent it to  _you?"_

"Yeah, I know," Tony said darkly. "He must want answers bad, and I'm more than willing to provide them. But it gets better. The sample was sent from Switzerland, and the girl was cryogenically frozen. Look, that's not even technology  _I_ have." He sounded more than a bit annoyed by the fact.

Pepper tilted her head. "Maybe Fury just wanted Steve's advice about Hydra. He knows more about them than anyone."

"Or advice on the defrosting process?" Tony smirked. "I doubt it, Pep. Why bring a friend, then? I studied her DNA, and then cross-referenced it with some mid-century historical records. Her name is Beatrice Hartley, born 1920 in Brooklyn. She joined the Army Nurse Corps and was assigned to the 107th Field Hospital. Records have her in Europe from June 1943 to December 1944. She got herself captured by Hydra and was imprisoned for a couple days at the same facility that also happened to be liberated by our friend Cap way back when. Oh, and her uncle also happened to work with my dad. Does any of this sound suspicious to you?"

"Tony, I think you might be reading too much into this," Pepper warned, but her advice had the opposite effect—if anything, he only seemed more energetic.

"Do you know what her uncle's name was?  _Romanov."_  Tony let the words sink in before continuing. "Something is rotten in the state of S.H.I.E.L.D., and I'll be damned if I don't get to the bottom of this. Rogers is sneaking around behind my back, and predictably, he's not very good at it."

Knowing that trying to argue with him was pointless, Pepper made her voice as soothing as possible. "What were the results of the sample?"

"Not a damn thing," Tony groaned, smacking his hand wearily on the table. "Fury told me that Hydra experimented on her, but I can't isolate the compounds in the blood at all. The cells are resisting somehow. Like it's… _alive."_ He scoffed at the words, evidently frustrated. "It's similar to the sample of Cap's blood I tested against it, but there's still something  _more._ It reminds me of the Tesseract."

Pepper hummed in consideration. "Too bad Thor brought it back to Asgard," she mused. "But you shouldn't beat yourself up over this. It's clearly a special case. Have you asked Bruce?"

"Not yet," Tony admitted. "But I'll get him to take a closer look at it." He paused. "Do you think he's awake?"

"No, I don't," Pepper said firmly. "And you shouldn't be, either." She stepped back and began to walk away, gathering her purse in preparation to leave the room. "Unless you want to be even more miserable tomorrow, I suggest getting some sleep. It's not going to magically solve itself in the next four hours."

Tony stared after her until the door had clicked shut before looking back at the multitude of data spread across the computer screens. He remained still for a long moment, weighing his options, before finally giving in with a groan and getting up to follow her.


	38. XXXVIII

It was well past midnight, but Beatrice wasn't tired in the least. She was curled up on the burgundy couch in the living-room of the safe house, her feet tucked under her as she watched Steve agitatedly pace the length of the room, wearing a hole in the carpet. Sam was sitting on the edge of an armchair across from her, leaning forward with his hands dangling over his knees. He looked none the worse for wear after single-handedly taking down the two men who had accosted them in the parking lot; by the time they had made their way back to the car again, the men had disappeared.

The clock ticking above the mantel was the only sound in the room, keeping time with Beatrice's heart. She knew that Bucky was the first and foremost thing on Steve's mind, as he was on hers, and both of them blamed themselves for letting him get away. She kept replaying the scene over and over in her head like a movie: his silent, steady pursuit of her—how long had he been watching her before she'd noticed him?—the way he had caught her after she flipped over the railing, as if he'd somehow anticipated it happening; the way he'd set her on the ground and then drew back but continued to examine her; the utter confusion and simply _lost_ way he had said her name, with a questioning inflection that made her wonder if he had drawn it from the depths of his own mind rather than hearing it from her; and finally, the way he had disappeared so quickly and silently after he'd heard Steve and Sam, like a ghost. He had taken the paper she'd given him, too: to Beatrice's disappointment, most of the files on the desk she'd overturned had been ordinary paperwork, with only a few key pieces having been identified by Steve as potentially useful. They'd gathered up everything of interest before leaving the building—Sam had seemed more concerned as to the reasons _why_ Hydra had left such damaging information out in the open when the facility had supposedly been abandoned for decades, but Beatrice was preoccupied with what the files actually _contained._

She'd examined them on the return trip, and although the precise timeline was still unclear, she was slowly beginning to piece together parts of what exactly Hydra had done to Bucky. When he was awake, he had been subject to brutal training exercises that were supposed to prove his "loyalty" to Hydra by hunting down their prisoners like a game of cat-and-mouse—but it was more sadistic than anything else. Like Pierce and Zola had once done with Beatrice herself, the Winter Soldier's handlers would deliberately set prisoners they wished to dispose of loose and sent their prized asset after them, making careful notations of the time it took for him to track them down. Most of the time it was less than ten minutes; in a few instances it had been less than five. He was given nutrients intravenously and constantly monitored, never allowed to be on his own aside from missions, and even then there was always an extraction team nearby. After a mission was completed, he was almost immediately wiped, sometimes multiple times if the target had been particularly high-profile. At best, Hydra had treated him like an animal; more often than not, she guessed, he had been spoken of as a machine. Every word she read made Beatrice feel even sicker, and although she tried to push the thought out of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if it was possible to come back from that sort of torture. Even if Bucky _did_ regain his memories, how would he react to what he had done? Would he blame Beatrice and Steve for failing to rescue him? When he read that paper, he would learn that he had cried out for them at first; had begged for help that never came. Guilt licked, white-hot, at her insides; she knew now that he had still been alive when he'd fallen into the ravine. If she had only started searching for him sooner, she could have saved him, and neither of them would have been captured.

But Steve would have still crashed the Valkyrie, wouldn't he? Or would Bucky have been able to talk him out of it? The three of them were here together, in the next century, but Beatrice wished they weren't. If she had known at the beginning what she knew now, she would never have gone to Europe. She wouldn't have let Ivan move to Russia with Henry, and she would have begged Bucky to run away with her—away from the city, to hide where no one could find them. Maybe they would have gotten that farm in Indiana after all. The course of the war wouldn't have changed without the two of them in it.

But what would Steve have done? Steve wouldn't have had Bucky by his side. He might not even have become Captain America. What would _that_ have done to the course of the war? Would the Allies still have won?

Beatrice raised her eyes to the man himself, who had been uncharacteristically silent during the trip back to the house. His restless pacing betrayed the frustration she knew was building up inside him. Not only had they failed to find Bucky, they would be forced to explain to Fury where they had gotten the new documents from.

"I'll tell him I insisted on coming along," Beatrice said rashly, hoping to ease some of Steve's tension. "If he doesn't believe that, I'll say I snuck into the car."

Sam gave a short laugh. "Good luck with that," he muttered, shaking his head.

"We don't have to tell Fury anything," Steve insisted, stopping just in front of her with his hands loosely in his pockets. "He doesn't need to know about this."

"But he _will_ know about this," Sam said wisely. "He'll take one look at your face and know exactly what happened. Face it, Steve, you're not exactly the best liar in the world." Beatrice was inclined to agree with him; Steve glanced back at her, presumably for support, but all she could do was shrug her shoulders in assent. A guilty conscience had never been something he could hide.

Steve had somehow gotten it into his head that he was accountable for her decision, despite the fact that she hadn't, technically, been injured, and he had given her the chance to refuse. She herself was just waiting to be punished for what she had done. She had a sudden flashback of falling through empty air, Bucky's metal hand at her throat, and a wave of cold nausea swept over her. "Sam's right," Beatrice said carefully. "It's better that Fury knows about it. I'm sure those men were Hydra."

Clenching his jaw, Steve glanced back and forth between her and Sam, seeing that he was outnumbered. "Fine," he said, his voice taut with tension. "But he's not going to be happy about it. I wouldn't be surprised if he makes Beatrice stay in the house until this is sorted out."

"You're sure Hydra can't get in here, then?" she asked, only half-jokingly. "Or what's left of it, at least."

To her relief, she was rewarded with a slight smile. "Positive," Steve assured her. "Only the most trusted agents know about this place. Fury made sure of that."

The room was suddenly flooded with bright light pouring in from behind the curtains, and the unmistakable crunch of car tires on gravel was a sound that was familiar even to Beatrice. "Must be him now," Sam remarked coolly, raising an eyebrow at Steve. _Speak of the devil,_ Beatrice thought wryly. She saw Steve take a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as if he was about to face a firing squad. Although she was under the impression he didn't answer to Fury any longer, he clearly had a great deal of respect for the man. Steve's trust of him made the knot in Beatrice's chest loosen slightly.

She heard a car door slam outside, and then, to her surprise, could faintly pick out three different sets of footsteps approaching the house. Steve and Sam exchanged a glance, and Steve strode forward into the entryway. Beatrice cautiously leaned forward to get a better view, while Sam sat back in his chair and stared at the clock; it was clear that he wasn't planning to speak first.

She recognized Fury's long black coat immediately; he came to stand in front of the doorway with his arms crossed, blocking the only exit. He was flanked by Natasha and Clint Barton; Natasha's steely gaze moved from Steve to Beatrice and lingered on her, her lips thinning into a narrow line.

"Cap," Fury greeted Steve, but he continued to scrutinize Beatrice: she felt as if she had shrunk under the weight of his stare. "Nurse Hartley."

"Hello, sir," she mumbled, trying not to stare at the patch over his eye.

"I heard about your adventure earlier today," he said. Beatrice opened her mouth to stammer out an excuse, but to her amazement she thought she saw the hint of amusement on his face. "You performed exactly as I expected."

"What do you mean?" Beatrice asked, glancing back and forth between Steve and Fury. "You…knew where we were going? How did you find out?"

Steve made to speak, but Fury interrupted him before he could get a word out. "Did you think you were the only ones searching for Barnes? I had Agent Barton send Wilson the intel about the abandoned compound and leave the trail of documents inside. I applaud your efforts, but you had no chance of leaving this house undetected."

So Beatrice _had_ been a lab rat. They'd wanted to see what she would do. Her eyebrows raised, and she turned to Steve, who looked very close to angry. Unease bubbled up in her chest; her previous sense of security was being chipped away at the edges. "Did you send Bucky in after me?" she asked, trying very hard not to sound accusatory. "Are you hiding him, too?"

Fury's face turned grave. "That's the problem," he said. "It was not part of the plan."

"What's Barnes even doing here, anyway?" Clint asked reasonably.

"It's a long story," Natasha interjected. Her voice was hard. "We need to make a decision to stay here or leave. It shouldn't be too difficult for him to find us. If he's still compromised—"

"He isn't," Steve said.

Fury ignored his assertion and turned back to Beatrice. "My point is, even with Barnes's skills, something should have alerted us to his presence—"

"Unless someone warned him first," Sam said grimly.

Steve looked frustrated. "I understand your caution, sir, but—"

Whatever trace of leftover amusement there had been on Fury's features suddenly vanished. He barked, "Captain, the goddamned _Winter Soldier_ managed to get inside a monitored building without us noticing, and you're accusing me of being _cautious?"_

Beatrice was beginning to feel sick; Natasha's sharp eyes flitted over to her before she said, "Nick," in a low voice.

He didn't turn to Natasha, but when he spoke again his voice was thankfully calmer. "Regardless of whether you once knew him or not, things have obviously changed. In light of recent events, it is best that Barnes is treated like any other unknown. I placed Nurse Hartley in your care because I, unfortunately, trust you, but we have already seen that she will make an attempt to escape if given the opportunity." Fury's one visible eye was narrowed at him.

Steve looked outraged. _"Escape?_ I gave her the choice to come with us or not—"

"And she accepted," Fury said darkly. "Look, we don't know the extent of what Hydra did to her, other than the fact that they clearly did something none of us has an explanation for. There could be backup measures—implanted triggers that even she doesn't know about."

"Are you saying _Beatrice_ isn't to be trusted?" Steve shot back. "She's a damn sight more trustworthy than all of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents you sent to spy on me!"

"Cool it," Sam muttered under his breath. Steve didn't appear to be listening.

" _Then trust her!"_ Fury barked, with such force that even Clint looked taken aback. "Trust that Barnes is no longer compromised. I can't stop you. But whatever happens after this is all on you, Rogers."

Steve nodded once; a muscle in his jaw was working furiously. "I understand, sir."

A heavy silence descended upon the room; Beatrice felt obligated to speak first. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to cause all of this trouble."

Steve smiled tiredly at her. "It's not your fault."

But his words didn't pacify Beatrice one bit. She anxiously chewed on her bottom lip as Fury moved forward into the room, Natasha and Clint shadowing him. "Nurse Hartley, the sample we took of your blood has been analyzed and evaluated. There are irregularities present."

Beatrice's heart stopped beating. "It's not…normal?" she asked. "But I thought you said—you had done tests—"

"Identity tests," Fury corrected. "A thorough medical examination before you were awakened revealed that your overall health is identical to that of an average, physically fit woman—barring the serum, of course. But there is an abnormality in your chromosomes that isn't present in Rogers's blood I would like to examine further. It is likely a result of Hydra experimentation and does not appear to affect your health, but we would like to take one more DNA test—with your consent, that is."

Beatrice didn't know or care what DNA was—she was certain they would perform the test whether she consented or not, but Fury seemed to be one for ceremony, so she nodded even though her stomach was tying itself into knots. She had no other choice, after all. Should she tell Fury about Zola's experiment on her with the Tesseract?

"With all due respect—" Steve began, sounding as if he was about to protest again, but Natasha interrupted him, her voice silky smooth.

" _Vy možete doverjat’ emu_ ," she said, and Beatrice, somehow, understood her, if only barely. _You can trust him._ She stared at the scarlet-haired woman, a million questions forming in her head. Natasha, sensing her amazement, added in English, "We pulled out all the stops on you," somewhat dryly.

They supposedly didn't know anything about her, yet they had a file on her she wasn't allowed to read. Beatrice's sense of discomfort only grew at this new development. "If I agree, will you let me go?" she asked. She was grateful for their help, but she wasn't naïve enough not to realize that they were doing it for their own gain as well.

"Yes," Fury said after sharing a long look with Natasha. "If you agree to be monitored by us periodically, you will be allowed back out into the world."

Steve immediately opened his mouth, but thankfully fell silent when he caught Beatrice's eye. "I do agree," she said, albeit with a touch of reluctance. She had no choice but to put her faith in these people, even if it did restrict her freedom. They were the only ones who could help her.

"Very well," Fury said in a voice that held neither pleasure nor displeasure. Beatrice wondered what would have happened if she'd refused. "Luckily for you, the only thing we'll need is a strand of hair."

Trying to ignore the fact that all eyes were on her, Beatrice ran a hand through her hair until she caught at a loose strand and reluctantly handed it over to Fury, who pocketed it before sweeping his gaze back over the room. "Rogers, Wilson, who's going to speak first? Neither of you have been forthcoming with the particulars about what transpired earlier tonight."

"We're having this discussion right now, then?" Sam challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Fury fixed an unflinching stare on Sam, who didn't back down. Beatrice held her breath until he finally said, "If you object so strongly, then we will have it tomorrow at seven o'clock sharp."

"I think you mean later today," muttered Clint.

"I'll take her upstairs," Natasha said as soon as Steve rose from his chair, inserting herself between him and Beatrice.

"I can go on my own, honest," Beatrice said, annoyed at the constant scrutiny, but Natasha was already walking out of the room.

"You'd better listen to her," Clint remarked, with a look that suggested he knew the consequences if she didn't.

Steve stepped back, and for a brief moment Beatrice imagined there was disappointment on his face, but he only shrugged. "See you tomorrow, Beatrice."

She smiled at him as she reluctantly followed Natasha into the entryway and up the staircase. She didn't want to go back to her room; not now, where there was nothing to do but read. She opened her mouth to ask Natasha if she had any other options, but all that came out was, "Why are you doing all of this for me?"

"Why am _I_ doing all of this?" Natasha asked slyly.

"No," Beatrice said, suddenly flustered. "I mean all of you. Fury and Barton and, well, all of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who know about me."

"Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents," Natasha corrected. They'd reached the door to her bedroom by now; the other woman crossed her arms and regarded Beatrice with an elegantly arched eyebrow. "Well, the reasoning is pretty simple. We found you in a Hydra bunker and your blood composition is unlike anything we've seen before. He might not seem like it, but Fury is the best person to have with you when it comes to these sorts of things. Promise." Her lips twitched at Beatrice's skeptical expression. "But if you want to know _why_ we're going to all of this trouble, it's because of Steve."

"Steve?" Beatrice echoed in surprise, twisting Bucky's bracelet around on her wrist. Natasha, her eyes flickering past Beatrice as if to make sure there was no one else around, leaned forward to whisper in her ear: " _Byt’ ostorožen_." _Be careful._

Now Beatrice was even more perplexed, considering she hadn't even answered the question, but Natasha's face was a smooth mask. "I'm leaving for New York tomorrow, but I'm sure I'll see you again soon," she said. "It was nice to meet you, Beatrice." And then she was gone, as swiftly and soundlessly as a cat.

Beatrice blinked at her retreating figure in mild shock before admitting defeat and walking into her room. She closed the door behind her once she was inside and slumped against it, at a loss as to what she should do next.

Her eyes instinctively swept the room—and landed on a dark figure standing in the far corner, so still that they were almost part of the shadows. She opened her mouth to scream, but they crossed the room in half a second: a glove clamped tightly over her mouth before she could make a sound. She felt a sudden, uncomfortable pressure on her neck, so of course she fought: she flailed against them, but had misjudged the distance: the wall was flying toward her faster than she could move away, and she heard the impact of it slamming against her head, someone's fingers still pressing against her neck. Pain sliced through her skull, and she fell.

* * *

The next thing Beatrice saw were stars blinking above her. Her head was throbbing so horribly she thought it was about to explode, and it took her several seconds before she realized that the stars were in her own eyes. She furiously blinked them away, willing the pain to stop. Hadn't she already suffered enough?

She was staring at a low ceiling, bright lights shining down onto her with an uncomfortable heat, and if she strained her ears hard enough she could hear the hum of electricity buzzing through the wires. Her vision was edged with red to match the pounding of her heart as she slowly raised herself up onto her elbows. Wherever she was, she most certainly wasn't at the safe house anymore.

Three times. She had been captured three times. Had Natasha known about this? Was this another one of Fury's tests?

Beatrice climbed to her feet, frustration and fear running through her in equal measures. She was in a small, windowless room, the walls made of concrete and the floor scuffed and faded. It was completely empty, without even a cot; whoever had stuffed her in here must have just dropped her in the middle of the cell.

She didn't even need to examine the door to know that it was locked, but she did it anyway, rattling the handle in desperation until it splintered and she was left holding the broken piece in her hand.

Beatrice stared at it in confusion, unsure what to make of this new development—could it be that the handle was just old? But the steel looked far too polished to be more than a few years old—

Her mind, inexplicably, turned back to the confrontation at Castle Zemo, and to the fall from the staircase that had ended in _her_ making a dent in the floor, not the other way around. And Zemo himself had told her that she was holding back, that she was stronger than most.

Beatrice let the handle fall to the ground as she slammed into the door with as much force as she could muster; it shuddered but didn't break, the hinges creaking in protest. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath and slammed her fist into the weakest part of the door, where the handle had been. This time there was an audible crunch and it swung open, revealing a familiar hallway lit dimly by flickering lights.

Beatrice stared at her completely uninjured hand for a stunned moment before looking up at the splintered wood, a fist-sized hole where the lock had been. She had punched completely through the door.

" _Das Mädchen ist entkommen!"_ a voice cried in the distance. Beatrice didn't even think, she just reacted, racing forward into the corridor. It was the same hallway she had been in just hours ago—the abandoned Hydra facility, and the man striding toward her was one of the pair who had confronted her and Sam.

Hydra had found her again.

Beatrice spun around frantically, looking for an escape route, but the room she had been trapped in was at the very end of the corridor and there were no windows or fire escapes. There was nowhere to go but forward.

Throughout her entire life, she had always chosen the path of least resistance. It was easier that way. When her father flew into one of his drunken rages, it was easier to just hide until it was over. When she was mugged walking through Brownsville, it was easier to just hand over her money and flee. But now there was no path of least resistance, and her only option was to fight.

"Stay where you are!" the man yelled in English, and Beatrice was suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun. "Don't move!"

She knew, later, that this was the moment when everything changed. Without volition, without intention, she clenched her right hand into a fist, nails digging into her palms. Her fingers suddenly burned hot, and she drew in a sharp breath—but the physical sensation was nothing compared to what actually _happened._ The barrel of the gun began to crumple inward, as if some extreme force was causing it to cave in on itself. Clearly panicked, the man dropped it to the ground. There was now a visible indentation on the barrel, preventing it from firing properly.

Beatrice stared down at her hands for the second time that day. Now she could clearly see a bright blue hue pulsing under her skin, and her fingertips were actually _glowing._ She had only come across that particular shade of electric blue once before.

Her breathing hitched, but before she had time to dwell on it further, the Hydra agent lunged at her, kicking the gun aside and tackling her to the ground. Beatrice gave a muffled cry of surprise, unable to defend herself in time, and a hand was suddenly covering her mouth. "Strucker didn't tell me you were one of _them,"_ the man snarled. His knee came down hard on her stomach, her gasp muffled by the hand still over her mouth.

_Strucker._ She had seen that name scratched into the wall of this building. Who was he? The current head of Hydra?

But before she could consider the implications of it, her attacker had lunged for the gun. Beatrice didn't wait to see what he was planning to do with it; she acted on instinct, bringing her foot around to kick it away as hard as she could. The gun went whirling across the floor, and as the man raised his free hand to strike her across the face, Beatrice reached up and stopped his punch in midair, gritting her teeth and her arm shaking as she desperately tried to hold him back. His eyes widened in surprise and fear, and Beatrice took advantage of the momentary distraction to drive her knee into his chest. He grunted, and his grip loosened on her mouth. Beatrice was able to pry his arm from her and roll away from his grasp, leaping to her feet before he looked up at her. Her, barely five feet tall. Him, a muscular, burly man who towered over her and who had likely been trained in combat. She had overpowered _him._

As he began to struggle to his feet, Beatrice cast her eyes around for anything that could help her, and her gaze landed on the broken gun lying some twenty feet away. Again, without any conscious input from her brain, she reached out for it, curling her fingers as if she could pick it up from where she was standing. The gun twitched slightly, and Beatrice jerked her arm back when she saw the blue mist forming around her fingers. Something like a shudder passed through her entire body, and the gun went flying towards her, in the perfect position for her to catch it by the handle. She tried not to let the shock show on her face as she turned back to face him, her finger on the trigger.

"It won't work," the man jeered, beginning to advance on her again. Beatrice hoped he couldn't tell that her hand was shaking.

"How do you know?" she asked quietly, thankfully sounding braver than she felt. He faltered—but it was enough time for her to jump at him and twist his arm backwards so he couldn't fight back before pressing the tip of the gun against the side of his head. He swung wildly out with his free arm, trying to shake her off, but Beatrice was faster: she kicked the back of his knee so that his legs buckled to the ground. Keeping the gun pressed against his skull, she reached around with her other arm so that she had him in a chokehold, forcing him down to the ground. She had never thought she would ever need to use that particular move from the limited training she'd received from the SSR. Colonel Phillips had always wanted them to fight dirty; he would be rolling in his grave if he could see her now. Whether the man didn't dare to move because of the gun or if the serum had simply made her much stronger than she'd ever thought, Beatrice was able to hold him down with moderate effort.

"Why did you come after me?" she hissed, counting on the fact that the gun was threatening enough to force him to answer.

"We have—orders—to bring you back to Strucker," he panted. Beatrice increased the pressure on his neck until he ground out, "You and the asset belong to Hydra! But he's already used the scepter on you, hasn't he?"

"What scepter?"

But it didn't seem as if she would be getting any more answers from him; with all of the strength he could seemingly muster, the man twisted his head to give her a look of pure venom and spat _, "Hail—"_

Beatrice prevented him from finishing the rest of his sentence by tightening her hold on his throat. Within moments he slumped forward onto the ground, unconscious, his eyes rolling back into his head and his grip slackening. Dropping the gun, she leapt to her feet and began to sprint down the corridor without a look back, knowing she would have twenty seconds at best before he woke up. Somehow her mind had known exactly what to do—as if it had never fully awakened until she was in real, life-threatening danger, something that put her in a position to fight far more than being strapped down to a table ever had. Whether it was due to the serum, or the Tesseract, or both, Beatrice didn't care.

She skidded out into the stairwell, unsure what floor she was on. Deciding that the ground floor was her safest bet, she forewent the actual stairs and vaulted over the railing onto the next landing. Her feet took the brunt of the fall, and lacking any sort of finesse she stumbled, having to grab onto the wall for support, but she was unharmed. Just last night she had fallen onto the same stairs, but if she'd known then what she knew now, she wouldn't have needed to rely on Bucky to save her.

_Bucky._ He had to be the asset that the agent was talking about. Had he been captured, too? Quickening her pace, Beatrice flew down the next flight of stairs, her heart pounding in her ears, until she reached the bottom and threw open the door to the lobby.

She sensed him before she saw him—the second Hydra agent, the taller one, was running toward her with a ferocious expression on his face. Luckily, he didn't appear to be carrying a gun. Beatrice didn't try to attack him first; she merely balled her hands into fists and took a deep breath, waiting until he came close enough to strike. She had seen Steve and Bucky practice this maneuver several times, when Bucky was trying to teach Steve how to defend himself in a streetfight. It had never worked properly because Steve was too weak and frail, but if Beatrice tried it with all her strength—

He yelled something in German to her, but she didn't understand nor care what it meant. He lashed out at her, and she automatically raised her arms to deflect his punch before ducking under his arm and whirling back around, sweeping her leg behind his ankles. He lost his balance and stumbled backward into the nearest door; it gave way behind him, and with a final shove from Beatrice he was sent reeling back into the room. Now she could see why Sam had gotten the better of both men so easily—neither of them had been particularly well-trained.

As it turned out, she didn't need to bother choking him, too—the gurney right behind the door did that just fine. The back of his neck cracked against the metal, and like his partner, he slumped to the ground, blood already staining his hair.

Satisfied that he wouldn't be moving anytime soon, Beatrice turned her attention to the room at large, inhaling sharply when she realized she wasn't alone. It looked to have been hastily converted into some sort of medical bay—the gurney in front of her was rusted red, and the walls were painted a blinding white. A basin stood in one corner, with a rolling table filled with surgical instruments next to it. But her gaze was locked on the chair in the center of the room, where yet another man was strapped down to it, his chest heaving. Manacles chained his feet to the floor, and his hands were clenched into fists beneath the straps that held his arms down.

Beatrice couldn't breathe. Her jaw worked furiously, struggling to form words, but she simply couldn't speak. All of the fight had gone out of her, and any slight momentum would send her tumbling to the ground. If either of her captors came after her now, there was no way she would be able to defend herself again.

The man in front of her slowly raised his head, and Beatrice stared into a pair of gray-blue eyes barely concealed behind a curtain of long hair.

_"Bucky,"_ she whispered.


	39. XXXIX

The man chained to the chair— _Bucky_ —visibly tensed when Beatrice said his name, his muscles straining under the weight of the straps holding him down. The baseball cap he had been wearing before was gone, his hair falling across his face in dark, greasy clumps, partially obscuring the still-bleeding gash that ran along his forehead. His jacket was covered in dirt and grime. However he'd been captured, he obviously hadn't gone down without a fight.

Still dumbfounded, Beatrice took a step toward him, blinking rapidly. He hadn't taken his gaze off her since he'd raised his head. She knew that look well enough: he was sizing her up, assessing her as if she was a potential threat. It took all of her newfound strength not to run to him, to throw her arms around him and sob into his shoulder.  _Bucky,_ she thought helplessly.  _Oh, Bucky, what have they done to you?_

Silently thanking God—if one existed—that she had experience in treating shellshocked soldiers, Beatrice knew that any sudden movements could be disastrous in making Bucky trust her. Even if he was the man she knew more than anyone else in the world, except for perhaps Steve.

She raised her hands, showing that she wasn't a threat, and took another step forward, their gazes never wavering from each other. Bucky was clearly in distress, although he was trying his hardest not to show it. A flash of wariness crossed his face, and Beatrice thought of an animal ensnared in a trap, at the mercy of humans to free it when every one of its senses was telling it to flee. She had seen similar looks on the German prisoners of war she'd treated, terrified that they would be poisoned by the Allied nurses. Was Bucky afraid of  _her?_

"Hey, Buck," Beatrice said as softly as she could, hoping Steve's nickname would trigger some sort of remembrance in him. Red-hot anger was pulsing through her veins at Hydra, at what they had done to him. She wanted to throw up. "It's Beatrice. Do you…do you know who I am?"

She could have sworn his hands relaxed ever so slightly at the sound of her voice, but she didn't allow herself to carry that thought any further. His lips parted, but it was a moment before he actually spoke. "Beatrice," he repeated, in that same questioning tone he had during their previous meeting. His eyes flickered away from her for half a second, darting from side to side, before quickly meeting her stare again. "I saw you last night," he said. His voice was hoarse, but it was unmistakably Bucky's. "On the stairs."

Beatrice forced herself not to betray any sort of reaction as she nodded slowly, knowing that if Bucky was still in there, he would recognize there were a great many things she wanted to say but couldn't utter any of them. "Yes, that was me," she replied. She wanted to ask him if he had read the paper—if he remembered anything else—if he remembered  _her—_ but she simply couldn't, not when she had more immediate priorities. Nodding to the restraints around his wrists, she said, "I'm going to take these off, okay? We need to get out of here."

Bucky didn't immediately object, so Beatrice assumed that she had permission to move closer. Still keeping her eyes fixed on his, she slowly moved forward until she was within arm's reach of him before kneeling down next to his chair. His right hand was curled into a fist, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm, leaving half-moon crescents on his skin.

Beatrice didn't trust herself to use any sort of… _magic_ , or whatever that had been, to untie his bonds, so she was forced to do it using only her strength, her fingers catching and slipping on the knots as she frantically tried to free him. There was dirt and blood caked under her fingernails; she must look nearly as bad as he did, now.

"Why are you here?" Bucky's voice broke the uneasy silence, his words hanging in the air between them. Beatrice froze, her hands stilling, sure he could hear the sudden hitch in her breathing.

"I'm not going to let Hydra win again," she said after a beat. "They want both of us back. I heard one of the agents talking about a man named Strucker. Do you know who he is?"

But Bucky shook his head, and her heart sank. Beatrice pulled on the strap binding his wrist, and it suddenly broke off, leaving his right arm free. She immediately stood up and moved to his other side, where his metal arm glinted in the dim light. Slightly out of reach of his grasp, she watched as he reached over and tore the other strap off with barely a grunt, in less than half the time it had taken her. Even with the serum, Bucky was far stronger than her.

It didn't take him long to snap the chains at his feet, and he stood up, his teeth bared in a snarl as he kicked the manacles away. Beatrice took another step back, her heart ringing in her ears. There was something wild and feral about this Bucky, about the Winter Soldier, that set her on edge. She hated herself for thinking it, for recognizing that her response to him had changed so fundamentally, but—

"You're afraid," he said abruptly, turning to her. Beatrice thought wildly that perhaps Zola had experimented on him with the Tesseract too and he could read minds. But that was impossible. Either that, or his talent for instinctively knowing what she was thinking hadn't been completely destroyed.

"Of Hydra," she replied, running her tongue along the inside of her suddenly dry mouth.

Bucky's eyes narrowed, his lip twisting in something close to disgust. At her, or at himself? "Of me," he said matter-of-factly.

"No, I'm not," Beatrice said with as much resolve as possible, though her voice wavered. As if to prove her point, she stayed firmly in the same spot as Bucky bore down on her, close enough to touch, stopping only when they were inches apart. She stared up at his face, at his hooded eyes and the stubble covering his chin. Their gazes met and held, some of that old familiar electricity flowing through them—but it was also unquestionably the gaze of two people who had once known each other under very different circumstances. Now they might as well have been strangers.

He was the first to break it, with a growl in his throat and a tiny, frustrated shake of his head. "You should be," he said darkly, and turned away from her.

"Bucky—" Beatrice began, nervously, but stopped when she saw his shoulders stiffen, his body going rigid at the name.

"I'm not him," he said, slowly, carefully. Beatrice stared numbly at the sliver of his face she could see; he'd placed his metal hand on the gurney, as if he suddenly had to hold himself up. "Not anymore."

 _Then who are you?_ she thought, hardly daring to breathe. Had her worst fears come true, then? The man who emerged from seven decades of torture and brainwashing was no longer the same as before? Beatrice knew she had no right to be upset about this—she ought to just be thankful that Bucky was alive, even if he was irreversibly changed. It was ridiculously selfish for her to hope that there was a chance of salvaging their relationship. But the  _guilt_ —oh God, the  _guilt_ —that ached at her insides told her that this was all her fault, that she was responsible for the haunted look in Bucky's eyes. If she hadn't tried to fight Lorraine on her own, if she hadn't been stupid enough to let herself get captured  _again_ , there would have been no reason for Bucky to fall off the train, much less be on it in the first place.

Or, Beatrice thought, the man who had once been Bucky Barnes. How much had the medical field advanced when it came to understanding the human brain, anyway? Beatrice knew that trauma to one area could permanently alter one's personality. She could see a shadow of Bucky in the Soldier, but it was hollowed out, a faint imprint of what had once been there. And what if, by some miracle, he  _did_ regain his memories? Who would be left?

She was pulled out of her ill-timed contemplation by the harsh sound of the gurney scraping across the floor. Bucky took a step backward as the still-unconscious guard slumped to the floor, now having nothing to hold him up. His eyes flickered over to Beatrice, and she imagined she saw a question in them. "You were captured too?" he asked, his tone impossible to decipher.

"Yes," she said haltingly, biting back the urge to add  _Why else would I be here?_ "I…I managed to escape, though."

"How?"

Surprised by his sharp question, Beatrice didn't have the time to think up an appropriate response; she couldn't even explain to herself what it was exactly that she had done, so she reflexively said, "I don't know."

The old Bucky would have known right away that she was lying, or at least omitting something important, but he just glanced away from her, quickly, back down at the guard's body, as if averse to prolonged eye contact. "Why did they want you?"

"The same reason they wanted you back. I am— _was_ —also a prisoner of theirs. But they couldn't experiment on me the way they wanted to—"— _The way they could on you—"_ And I was kept in cryofreeze unless they wanted to, um, check on me." She sucked in a quick breath, praying he wouldn't ask her how he had been captured in the first place. She wouldn't be able to tell him it was because of her that he had fallen off the train. She was sure he could read it on her face, anyway. He wore a strange expression—somewhere between disbelief and horror. And suddenly Beatrice was rambling on before she could stop herself. "We were trapped together once. During the war. They, um, tried to starve us. Do you remember?" she asked, holding her breath, knowing it was too much to hope for, that he wouldn't possibly say it—

"No," he said shortly, and her heart plummeted, even though she had told herself not to expect it. Of course he wouldn't remember.

Beatrice wanted to shout any number of things at him.  _The dance hall by the Navy Yard. The rose trellis outside your bedroom window. Coney Island. The Dorchester Hotel. Those letters_ —especially the last one she had read, the one that was to be given to her in the event of his death.

_Please don't forget about me. Keep this letter and don't forget. I don't think I'd be able to stand it if you did._

And she hadn't forgotten, not a single moment. But  _he_  had.

Beatrice could feel her mouth working furiously, trying desperately to come up with an acceptable retort, something that would make him remember all of it—

But there was no magic word that could help her—help  _him._ She saw Bucky swallow as the silence stretched on, saw him blink once, harder than necessary, as if he was making sure she was really there, and Beatrice turned away, back to the chair where they had been about to wipe him yet another time. Her eyes were burning with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. "What do you remember, then?" she pressed, instead of asking him if he remembered anything at all.

"I remember  _him,"_ Bucky said; there was no need to elaborate on the name. "And I knew you." His gaze was unflinching as he met her eyes again; he seemed unable to stay still, as if he wanted nothing more than to escape. So why hadn't he?

"But that's it?" Beatrice couldn't stop the desperation in her voice, but she needed some sort of outlet for the dread that was clawing at her insides. She wanted Steve there—whether for reassurance or backup, she wasn't sure. She couldn't do this on her own, and Steve had known him for much longer than her.

Bucky's voice was flat as he replied, "I remember snow. And a train."

Beatrice wasn't aware she had been moving closer to him until her hands brushed the cold metal of the gurney, the body of the Hydra agent lying between them like a barrier. "You used to call me Rosie," she told him, and something stirred behind Bucky's eyes. Bolstered by the glimpse of recognition, however small, she added, "We were going to move to Indiana and live on a farm."

His mouth hardened. "This isn't Indiana."

"Well—" Beatrice began uselessly, tugging agitatedly at her bracelet, "No, but—"

Thankfully, she was spared from stuttering out a response by Bucky himself, who had been tracking her movements: his real arm shot out and grabbed Beatrice's left wrist, his gloved fingers curling around the bracelet. She was too surprised to yank her arm away as his sharp eyes snapped up again to hers. There was a question in his eyes, a suspicion, and she nodded. "It's—it's mine," she rasped hoarsely. "You—you gave it to me."

He suddenly dropped her wrist as if he'd been electrocuted, but Beatrice didn't miss the momentary flash of horror in his eyes. Was he still in denial, then? Thoughts were whirling through her brain at a considerably slower pace, as if the gears had been halted. She still couldn't believe that a bullet hadn't lodged itself in her brain yet, if he was as far gone as everyone said he was.

"The museum said we were engaged."

Beatrice's head snapped up; she hadn't been expecting him to speak so soon. Her mouth gaped open like a fish as she struggled to form proper words. For a moment it was as if the world had fallen away from them, as if they weren't staring at each other over the unconscious body of a Hydra agent, in a laboratory where gruesome experiments had most certainly taken place, in the depths of a building where they could be discovered at any moment.

"We were," she said carefully, hoping that he would believe her. She had told him the same thing yesterday—could it be that he was starting to believe everything she and Steve had insisted on being true? With more than a hint of self-deprecation, she added, "Good thing we didn't actually get married, or you'd really be stuck with me now."

Bucky didn't look pleased with her pathetic attempt at humor; he audibly scoffed and looked away from her, turning over the agent's body with his foot so that he was lying on his back, a thin trail of blood trickling down his forehead from where Beatrice had smashed him into the door. "You…you don't know what I've done," he said, his voice so quiet even she had to struggle to hear it.

Before Beatrice could reply, Bucky went very still, like a dog that had caught a scent, and his head spun around to face the door. Beatrice strained her ears, and sure enough, she caught the faint sound of feet pounding down the stairs.

"Stay there," Bucky ordered without looking at her. There was suddenly a gun in his hand. Beatrice didn't need to be told twice; she immediately dove behind the gurney and hesitantly peered over the edge so she could see what was happening. She was certain who the newcomer was, anyway.

Sure enough, the man who burst through the door was the first agent, the one she had choked into unconsciousness. Alarm flashed across his face when he caught sight of the gun pointed directly at his heart. "The girl did this, didn't she?" he snarled, evidently noticing the body of his comrade. "Where is she? Tell me, Soldier!"

Bucky's entire body went taut, like a snake coiling itself up just before it sprang at its prey. The click of the safety as he pulled it off echoed throughout the laboratory as loudly as an actual shot. Now there was no hint of emotion whatsoever in Bucky's eyes. Something inside of him had shut down.

The agent slowly raised his hands in surrender, but his voice was full of venom as he spat, "Do it, then! Kill me, and you will be nothing more than what Hydra made you."

And Bucky  _faltered._ His finger loosened on the trigger, and the gun quivered slightly as his hand began to shake. Beatrice stared helplessly at the scene before her, her eyes growing wider with every passing second.

The agent was still rambling on, as if he thought talking could get him out of his predicament. "But that  _is_ what you are meant for, isn't it, Soldier? You are of no use if you are not given orders. Luckily, Strucker is willing to wait. I give it a month before you come back to us. What else could you possibly do?"

Beatrice felt the familiar pulse of anger surging through her, but this time it was joined by something else, something that wasn't quite an emotion but physical, as if it was in her very blood. She recognized the sensation instantly, and despite her fear she tried her best to harness it, and envisioned the energy flowing through her, collecting in the tips of her fingers—

So quickly that it was a shock to even herself, the gurney went flying forward in a burst of blue light and slammed into the man, who found himself pinned between it and the wall. He yelled what Beatrice assumed were threats in a string of angry German, but his head suddenly collided with the barrel of Bucky's gun, and he fell forward to join his fellow agent on the ground.

Lowering his gun, Bucky glanced over at Beatrice, who was frozen in place as she stared in shock at what she had done. "You couldn't do that before," he said. It was a statement rather than a question.

"No," Beatrice said quietly. The strange energy was already fading from her fingers, and she felt suddenly tired, as if all the sleep she had lost in the past days was suddenly catching up with her.

Bucky watched her silently for a long moment, his steel eyes tracking her every movement, before he asked, "Are you all right?" in a voice that was carefully impassive.

Beatrice managed to nod, though she was still shaking with adrenaline. "I think there were only two of them here," she said. "They were waiting for someone else—Strucker—but he's not here yet."

Bucky was suddenly next to her before her brain registered any movement, and his hand closed over her wrist, pulling her into a standing position. She thought of Steve pulling her to her feet so easily earlier, and quickly banished the thought from her mind. Steve couldn't help her now.

"What are you going to do?" Beatrice asked, relieved by the fact that he was, for now, relatively calm. She wanted to ask him why he had hesitated when the agent goaded him, when it would have been far easier just to kill him. Beatrice had seen for herself the way his eyes had widened, the way his grip had loosened on the gun.

She waited for him to answer her question, but none ever came. Her logical mind told her that the Winter Soldier, whether Bucky Barnes was still inside him or not, was the last person Beatrice knew she should trust. But it was impossible to put her emotions aside when it came to him. She knew Steve felt the same way.

They both stood still, weighing their options—Bucky had let go of Beatrice's hand almost immediately, stuffing it into his pocket as if he regretted helping her, and she saw his eyes narrow slightly. "Go," he ordered, and nodded to the door.

Eager to put as much space between herself and the agents as possible, Beatrice hurried to the doorway. She didn't miss the way Bucky tucked the gun into his jacket, or the way his eyes swept across the laboratory once more, as if searching for anything else useful.

When she found herself in the lobby again, Beatrice paused, unsure if Bucky meant to follow her or not. Was he going to kill the agents anyway? But he emerged a moment later, pulling the door closed behind him as the lock clicked into place; Beatrice figured it would serve to stall Strucker or his men when they inevitably showed up. He had found his cap again, the bill pulled down low over his head so that half of his face was cast in shadow.

Bucky stopped several feet away from her, his eyes glittering strangely under the hat. He seemed to be silently questioning why she was still there. Not wanting to continue their conversation inside the building, Beatrice began to walk toward the entrance, feeling his presence just behind her. He probably didn't want to turn  _his_ back on her, she thought, and felt vaguely ill at the implications of that.

She half-expected a dozen more Hydra agents to ambush them on their way out, or even Strucker himself, but the place was quiet— _too_ quiet—and Beatrice couldn't quite believe it when the front doors opened under her touch and the night came rushing to greet them.

It was very late at night, or very early in the morning—the stars were out, winking in their bright glory, but Beatrice didn't pay them any mind. The air was hot and humid, unusual for spring, and her hair stuck in long, wet clumps to her neck as she turned to face Bucky again.

"They're looking for you," he said gruffly. Beatrice saw his shoulders hunch, saw the cornered look in his eyes, and knew that she was about to lose him again.

"Steve wants to see you," she pleaded, not bothering to hide her desperation. "We can help you, Bucky. Please stay."  _Please. I love you. I don't care what they did to you—_

He was shaking his head slightly, a tiny movement he didn't seem to be aware of. "I  _can't."_  His voice cracked, and for the first time she could sense the hopelessness and confusion that engulfed him. Even he seemed to be overwhelmed by it; their eyes met and held, and Beatrice stared into the face of a man who was both utterly familiar and a stranger. His eyes were Bucky's stormy gray, but there was something cold to them now. No, she thought abruptly, not  _cold,_  just…distant. Like there was an invisible barrier separating them. She wondered if he felt the same way looking at her, too.

And then there was the distant growl of an engine, a bright light cutting through the darkness, and the moment was broken. Beatrice hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until she opened her mouth to call out for Bucky—but by the time her eyes adjusted to the light, he was gone, and yet again the world tied itself into another unsolvable knot.


	40. XL

"Beatrice, are you all right?"

Steve's voice was in her ear, low and anxious. She exhaled shakily and opened her eyes to look at him; she hadn't realized that she had fallen back against the side of the building, sliding down to the ground. Her arms were curled around her abdomen. She felt hollow; numb. "Y—yes," she said, though the word scraped against her throat. "I'm fine."

But Steve didn't look convinced; he muttered, "She's in shock," to someone behind him before slowly kneeling down to her level. His face was lined with worry, and she felt vaguely guilty for being the cause of it. "You're shivering," he pointed out, and shrugged off his own jacket to gently place it around her shoulders. He was still dressed in civilian clothes, but Beatrice was willing to bet that his shield wasn't far away.

She hunched over in the warmth of his jacket, staring up at him. She needed to tell him about Bucky—needed to tell him what she could suddenly do. Her hands shook as if he could somehow see the blue sparks flying from her fingertips. But all that came out when she forced her chattering teeth open was, "How did you find me?"

"The Hydra agent left a trail," Steve said, his eyes darkening. "He wanted us to come here. Fury's investigating the building right now."

But his plan had failed: Beatrice and Bucky had knocked both agents unconscious. What would Fury think when he found them? That Beatrice had done it herself? They needed to get as far away as possible before Strucker arrived. "Did Natasha know?" she asked, thinking of the red-haired woman's light smirk.

Steve shook his head. "No. None of us did. They must have followed us back and waited until you were alone." He looked angry on her behalf, though whether it was at himself or at Fury, she wasn't sure. "I promise we won't let anything else happen to you, Beatrice."

She could hear Steve's guilt, the regret, in his voice, and wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault. None of it was. He was already shouldering too many burdens.

"Cap, I'm gonna search the perimeter," Sam said as he came into view next to Steve. Beatrice blinked slowly up at him; was he wearing a pair of _wings?_

While Steve looked from her to Sam, deliberating what he should do, Beatrice closed her eyes again and leaned her head back against the wall. She was beginning to feel nauseous; inhaling sharply through her nose, she waited for the feeling to pass. But it didn't, and she could feel cold fear beginning to settle in her stomach. The ground tilted under her, though she wasn't moving.

"Stay with her. She needs you more than us." Sam had a current of authority to his voice, which sounded strangely faraway considering his proximity to her.

"All right," Steve said after a moment, and there was a peculiar whooshing noise that she would have been curious about if she had the strength. Even a slight breeze fluttering past them didn't make her feel any better.

She could sense that Steve was still kneeling in front of her rather awkwardly, searching for the proper words to comfort her. He had never been good at that, not even after his transformation. He could give a rousing speech as Captain America and bring hope to millions, but when it came to interpersonal relationships he fumbled. He had always been a better listener, anyway. So as usual, Beatrice took it upon herself to speak first, opening her eyes a crack so she could see his face, the blond tint of his hair visible even in the darkness.

"Bucky was here too," she said dully. "I—I let him leave."

Steve nodded grimly. "I know." At Beatrice's glance, he added, somewhat guiltily, "We heard the end of your conversation."

She looked down at her hand and saw that it was shaking. She opened her mouth to apologize to Steve for not putting up more of a fight, to somehow make Bucky stay, but there suddenly wasn't enough air in her lungs. The world tilted under her, and her legs turned to jelly. Beatrice gasped as if she had been electrocuted, her mind finally spinning out of control as she struggled for air.

"Breathe, Beatrice, breathe!" Steve was saying urgently, and she felt his hands gripping her shoulders tightly. Beatrice fought to keep her eyes on his face as the panic attack that had been building for days finally seized her, but it didn't seem as if she was in control of her lungs anymore. Her breaths came out in short, ragged gasps, and she forced herself to concentrate on the feeling of Steve holding her in place.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—the agent knocked me out—" Beatrice couldn't get a full sentence out, and speaking more than five words at a time made her head spin even more. She could hear Steve shushing her, trying to calm her down, but she was too far gone by then.

He was gently rubbing her shoulders, and she suddenly felt as if she was back in his apartment again after waking up from a nightmare, crying onto the shoulders of a boy she barely knew, a boy who was barely taller than her but still managed to hold her up anyway. "Nobody blames you for what happened."

Beatrice took shuddering gulps, impatiently wiping away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. But she knew Steve was only speaking empty words. It was because of her that his best friend was gone again.

"They caught him again," she stuttered, desperate to fight past her traitorous lungs. "Hydra. They were going to wipe his mind, or at least S—Strucker was. He wanted Bucky and I back. He has—some sort of scepter…"

Steve's face hardened at the mention of the scepter. "His name is Strucker?" he asked.

Beatrice nodded. "It sounds like he's the head of the European Hydra branch—or was. His name was scratched into one of the walls. Do you—do you know who he is?"

"I've heard of him," Steve replied tensely. "He worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm sure Fury knows more." He was suddenly wound up tighter than a drum; Beatrice hoped that she had given him some useful information. _They thought that the scepter gave me my—what I can do,_ she wanted to say. _Is it connected to the Tesseract, to what Zola experimented on me with?_

Her heart rate was slowly beginning to return to normal and she could see properly again. Steve's hand lifted from her upper arm, and Beatrice immediately missed its warmth. She rested her forehead against her knees and tried to come to terms with the fact that this wasn't a dream after all: it was reality, and she had to adapt to it. There was no going back to the way things had once been. Perhaps there had been no going back the moment she'd stepped foot onto the _Queen Mary_ and watched the buildings of New York growing smaller in the distance.

She exhaled shakily and dragged her hand through her hair; her fingers kept catching on the knots. "Bucky isn't—he isn't in a good place, Steve. He's confused. I think he knows we're familiar but he doesn't exactly know why. Hydra took _everything_ from him."

Steve pulled back and looked sympathetically at her, his blue eyes very bright. She was grateful that he pretended not to notice her voice break. "Did he hurt you?" he asked, and his tone was unfathomable. Bucky's voice rushed back into Beatrice's head, at once incredulous and even angry:

" _You're afraid."_

" _Of Hydra."_

" _Of me."_

" _No, I'm not."_

" _You should be."_

She knew she couldn't tell Steve what had really happened; what Bucky had said to her. Not tonight. "No," she said after a brief pause. "Not intentionally, at least."

Steve was noticeably concerned, but Beatrice waved him off, quickly changing the subject. "I'm feeling better now," she said, and it was true: her heart had returned to its normal rhythm and she could gather some semblance of a coherent thought. "I'm sorry, Steve. It's just…a lot to take in."

"I know," Steve said kindly, giving her a lopsided smile. "Believe me. This is—we should have taken you somewhere else first. Fury still thinks he's the head of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Beatrice shook her head. "If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here right now. But no matter what he says, we have to find Bucky—"

"But does he want to be found?"

The voice came from behind Steve; he straightened up, offering Beatrice a hand before pulling her to her feet as they turned to face Nick Fury, whose approaching presence had somehow escaped their notice. Dressed entirely in black, he almost appeared to be part of the darkness himself, and Beatrice was suddenly grateful for her enhanced vision. "The building is secure, although I _am_ interested to know why two Hydra thugs are trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys inside the laboratory." He looked sternly at Beatrice with his good eye, who tried and failed to stammer out an excuse.

"Beatrice told me they answered to Baron Strucker," Steve said as they began to walk forward across the grass to where the cars were parked. Beatrice, though recovering quickly, was still unsteady on her feet and had to lean against Steve lest she stumble on the uneven ground. Just being near him was an indescribable comfort she couldn't properly put into words.

"Wolfgang von Strucker," Fury explained, making no effort to hide his disgust. "Yeah, I know him. He disappeared off the grid after the Triskelion incident. Guess we know why."

"Apparently he has Loki's scepter," Steve said, with a quick glance at Beatrice.

"Loki?" she interjected, unable to help herself. "The—the Norse god?"

"Don't let him hear you say that—he has enough of a complex as it is," Fury remarked. If Beatrice hadn't known better, she would have thought he looked amused at her disbelief. "I wouldn't be surprised if Strucker did get his hands on it. There's no telling how long Hydra's had the scepter; it's been in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody for almost two years."

"Long enough for them to do some damage," Steve said, his jaw tight.

They had reached the cars by now, where several agents were wandering around the parking lot and the street beyond, presumably keeping an eye out for danger. Fury motioned to one of them, and Beatrice was only mildly surprised to recognize the doctor who had first treated her—Fine, she thought his name was—as he came jogging up to them.

"Could you take a look at Nurse Hartley?" Fury asked, gesturing to her. "There doesn't appear to be any evidence of trauma, but I think she might be more shaken up than she's letting on."

Beatrice frowned. "You don't need to call me that," she admitted. "I'm not a nurse—not anymore. Please just call me Beatrice." Catching Steve's eye, she quickly added, "Or Hartley is fine, too."

Something like a smirk crossed Fury's face before it was gone again as quickly as it had appeared. "I might have to get used to it."

"Why?"

Now she swore he was making fun of her. "I'm used to calling your brother that," Fury replied, and strode off without another word.

Beatrice stared at his retreating back, silently fuming. She'd known that Henry was once a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but she hadn't thought to make the connection between him and Fury. It made her head spin to think that they knew each other, just as it made her head spin to try to grasp the fact that the mythical figures she'd only heard about in childhood bedtime stories were real. "I think Fury and Colonel Phillips would get along very well," she muttered to Steve, who let out a short laugh.

"Either that, or they wouldn't be able to stand each other." He looked relieved that she was no longer panicking. Beatrice was still wearing his jacket, but Steve hadn't asked for it back. She decided she could keep it for a little while longer.

He hovered almost protectively over her while Dr. Fine took her pulse, blood pressure, and shone a bright light into her eyes to check for any signs of a concussion. Beatrice wasn't entirely sure how the serum worked—did it prevent serious trauma, or would she just recover from it quicker? Nonetheless, after it was determined that she was as healthy as could be following a bruised scalp and a panic attack, her own injuries were forgotten as she hurried back over to Steve, who had been rejoined by Sam. Beatrice bit back her questions about his wings.

"The area's clear," Sam was saying. "No heat signatures anywhere except for those two guys already in the building. There's forest on all sides until Geneva."

Footsteps crunched on the nearby gravel and Fury came up behind them again, having finished his conversation with the other agents. Beatrice wondered how many of them were left. "Not for much longer, if Hartley is to be believed."

"Where are we going, then?" Beatrice asked. "Back to the house?"

The director scoffed, crossing his arms: for the first time Beatrice noticed his oddly-misshapen jacket, and wondered how many weapons he carried on him. "As you might have noticed, the safe house is no longer safe. My agents and I are going to stick around and see if our old colleague wants to make an appearance. You, Rogers, and Wilson are going to New York."

" _What?_ " Beatrice asked shrilly. "New York? But—but we can't—we have to find Bucky—" She whirled helplessly around to face Steve, who seemed just as shocked as she was.

"We sent a sample of your blood to Stark Labs for testing," Fury explained. "Turns out that he might have some answers, but he wants to meet you in person first."

"What about Stark?" Beatrice demanded, suddenly not caring how rude she sounded. "Do you mean Anthony Stark? Howard's son? The iron man?"

Fury and Steve shared a long look over Beatrice's head; she could feel the frustration radiating out from the blond man like an aura. "You'll be safer there," Fury said after a long moment, in a tone that brooked no contradiction. "Rogers is right—I no longer have the proper facilities that enable me to help you. Stark does."

"Steve—" Beatrice said in one last moment of desperation; her heart sank at the stony look on his face.

"I'm sure Tony can wait another week," he told Fury, but she could already sense it would be a losing battle. The other man's face was completely stoic.

"You said yourself Barnes doesn't want to be found, Steve," Sam said in a low voice. Beatrice couldn't believe he was taking Fury's side.

And then something like anger sparked in Steve's eyes. "I knew that Tony would want to see her, but I didn't expect it to be so soon," he said shortly. "Nick, you know full well that my priority is to find Bucky. And I know hers is, too."

"That was before we found Hydra right under our noses," Fury replied, his tone suddenly harsher than she had ever heard it. _"Again."_

"But that's not my fault!" exclaimed Beatrice. "I don't care about Hydra. I need to find Bucky. He's my fiancé—"

"Is, or was?" Fury snapped. "What would he say if you asked him now?"

Beatrice felt as if she had been slapped in the face. She wanted to hate Fury, but she couldn't—she knew he was right. He had his own agenda, and she wouldn't have trusted him for a second if Steve didn't—but he was all that stood between her and Hydra now. In the ringing silence that followed, Fury looked back and forth between Beatrice and Steve, and said in a slightly calmer voice, "Look, I'm sure Stark will be able to help you find Barnes."

She paused, uncomprehending. _Help_ them? How on earth would he be able to help them? "He can?" she asked hesitantly. He was a billionaire—or at least that was what his file had said.

"Maybe," Steve said, clearly annoyed at Fury's words, "But that doesn't mean—"

"I'm willing to try anything," Beatrice blurted; her anger had suddenly evaporated, to be replaced with another burst of hope. She took a step toward Fury. "If Stark agrees to it, that is."

Steve's hands were fists at his sides, but his tone when he finally spoke was more defeated than anything else. "Are you sure about this, Beatrice?"

"If it helps," she said emphatically, ignoring Sam's surprised glance. "And like Fury said, it'll be harder for Hydra to find me in New York." She paused, not wanting to speak her next words but knowing she had to. "You…you don't have to come with me, Steve. You can stay here and continue looking for him."

"No, I can't," Steve muttered.

"Why not?" Beatrice asked, trying to hide her relief, but he pointedly ignored her question and turned back to Fury. A cool breeze blew through the nearby trees, and she was suddenly grateful for his jacket.

"I guess we don't have the quinjet," Steve said, with a raised eyebrow.

"The what?" Beatrice asked. It was amazing how quickly her mood had changed—from horror to hope—now that she knew she had a chance of finding Bucky again, to repair the mistakes she had made. Even if she had to be on a different continent to do it.

But neither man answered her question. "Unfortunately not," Fury replied. "You'll have to take that up with Barton and Romanoff."

Beatrice's mind suddenly went blank. _"R—Romanoff?"_ she choked, sure she had heard wrong.

"Natasha," Steve clarified, though she had already guessed that much. He inhaled deeply, his eyes flickering from Beatrice to Fury, as he added, "Tell Tony we'll be a couple of hours late. I'm bringing Beatrice to D.C. first."


	41. XLI

The world outside the airplane was pitch-black and utterly silent as they chased the night westward; it was as if they were the only thing in existence, hanging trapped in the limbo between worlds. The steady hum of the engine under Beatrice's feet was the only sign that they were actually moving.

She sat in one of the leather armchairs scattered around the cabin, staring out the window at the blinking light on the wing that flashed against the clouds. The plane—a Stark Industries private jet—was certainly more ostentatious than its forebears; Beatrice couldn't help but think that Howard would approve of how his son traveled. Not only was it three times the size of the ones she had flown on during the war, it was clearly built for luxury in mind, from the chairs that were more comfortable than the ones in most private houses to the polished wood of the side-tables to what Sam had called "flat-screen televisions" in front of every chair. He'd offered to show Beatrice how to use them, but she refused; she wasn't sure she could take in much else at the moment. She hadn't moved since they had taken off—how many hours ago had that been?—from Geneva, leaving Europe—and Bucky—behind. It had only struck Beatrice once they were in the air that she hadn't been to the United States since she'd first left New York. She doubted there were any crash courses one could take to acclimatize to a city—to a _world_ —they hadn't seen for seventy years.

As she often did in uncertain situations, Beatrice thought of her mother, of what Elena would say if she knew all that had happened to her. She couldn't help but think her mother would be more preoccupied with the fact that she had been "ruined" rather than her capture by Hydra. If she were here now, Beatrice was certain there would be an outburst of angry Russian, followed by Elena telling her that she had thrown away any chance of finding a good husband after what she had done with Bucky. "You better hope that boy will marry you, _malyshka,_ because no one else is going to now," she would snap, shaking her finger at Beatrice.

But Beatrice couldn't blame her mother for the way she had been raised. If it hadn't been for Elena's influence, Beatrice knew she would have turned out very differently. She was hardly alone in having a drunk for a father; she'd seen what happened to the other children in their tenement with neglectful parents, and no matter how old-fashioned Elena was, no matter how antiquated her beliefs were, she had still tried to raise Beatrice the best she could, shielding her from the worst of John.

But now, in this new world, Beatrice supposed that _she_ was the old-fashioned one.

Sometimes she wondered why her mother hadn't just left, hadn't taken Beatrice as a child and fled, even if it was just to the next neighborhood. There would always be a need for a seamstress. But now Beatrice thought that she was beginning to understand it. It wouldn't have made a difference, not really. There were some things in life that were impossible to escape from, whether by true powerlessness or attachment to a particular person or place. John's presence would have always remained, hovering over them like a dark cloud, just as Bucky now refused to leave her thoughts. Had she turned into her mother, now? Trying to persuade Bucky to come back with her just as Elena had once tried to persuade John to stop drinking? Tried, and failed. Just like her, Beatrice suddenly found herself in a situation that was impossible to properly escape. No, Bucky hadn't hurt her, just as John had never hurt Elena, but what if he had? What if Bucky had actually tried to kill her?

Beatrice sighed and leaned her head against the cool window, closing her eyes. What would her parents say if they could see her now? Would they blame her for giving Henry to Ivan? Would they blame Ivan himself?

Worse, would they even _care?_ They had been dead now for the better part of a century, their headstones decaying, probably covered with weeds from neglect. Beatrice couldn't think of anyone who would visit them—at least not anyone who was still alive, unless Henry had found out the truth from Ivan. She should be under the ground with them, now, after having lived a full, satisfying life. In an apartment in Brooklyn, on a farm in Indiana, Beatrice wouldn't have cared where she lived as long as she was with Bucky, and they were both safe, far away from Hydra's tendrils. Yes, she was still alive, as were the boys, but at what cost?

Maybe her parents were the lucky ones, after all.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she barely noticed when Steve quietly sat down in the chair across from her, looking more exhausted than she'd ever seen him. Beatrice felt as if she had been pulled from somewhere else entirely, and glanced up, disoriented. "Hi," she told him, a bit confused. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

He almost smiled. "I probably should be, yeah."

 _Some things will never change,_ Beatrice thought dryly, and he ducked his head as if he could read her thoughts. "How are you doing?" he asked after another moment.

She touched the top of her head, grinning ruefully. "Dr. Fine said it would heal in a day or so," she explained. "Serum be damned."

"It'll heal faster if you get some sleep," Steve advised her. "Sam sent me to make sure you were getting enough rest."

Beatrice raised an eyebrow _. "Sam_ sent you?"

"Well, I volunteered," he amended, his lips twitching. "We'll be there in a couple of hours, and I think you'll want to be awake for this."

She inhaled deeply through her nose and pressed her palms over her eyes, shaking her head. "I can't sleep," she confessed. Her voice was muffled.

"Why not?"

Beatrice peered at him through the gaps in her fingers, hating how concerned he sounded. "We're over the ocean," she said haltingly. "I—I don't like water."

Steve's brow furrowed even deeper, and Beatrice was suddenly ashamed of herself. How could she possibly explain to him that she still had nightmares about being forced under water while she spluttered and gasped for air? That she still lay awake at night remembering Schmidt holding her down as her vision slowly turned black and her lungs burned? That she couldn't even swim in the lake when the field hospital had been stationed in Lyon? "I guess I just didn't take too well to the ocean," she quickly said, attempting a smile. "I kept getting seasick on the _Queen Mary_. _"_

Steve may not have been a good liar himself, but he was definitely adept at knowing when other people weren't being honest. She saw the doubt in his eyes, but to her relief, he seemed to decide not to press the point and leaned back in his chair, staring out the dark window. "Maybe Sam's right," he began slowly.

"About what?" Beatrice asked, glad for a distraction.

He glanced sideways at her, and she could hear a sigh underpinning his voice. "That Bucky doesn't want to be found."

Beatrice suddenly felt as if the bottom of the plane had dropped out from underneath them, and she gripped the armrests tight, forcing herself to keep Steve's face in view. Her heart was pounding very fast. "I—I need him, Steve," she said haltingly. "Maybe it's selfish, but…I don't care. I don't care what he's done. He's still _Bucky_ underneath it all." Trying very hard to sound calm, she whispered, "I miss him."

She heard Steve inhale sharply, and he looked away from her, his pale reflection silhouetted in the glass of the window. "I know," he said quietly, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "So do I."

Beatrice let the silence stretch on until she could bear it no longer and she finally asked, "If it had been me, what would he have done?"

"He would have done anything to find you. Anything." Steve's eyes moved to the bracelet circling her wrist. "Hell or high water," he murmured, with a voice so quiet that even Beatrice barely heard it. She swallowed, met his gaze squarely, and a silent understanding passed between them. She wasn't the only one in pain. But she had Steve, now.

And he had her—for whatever that was worth.

Beatrice shifted in her seat, pulling her legs up so that she was leaning back, her head propped against the edge of her chair. "Do you really think Tony Stark can help us?" she ventured, not missing the way Steve briefly tensed at the mention of the other man. He sighed and gave a tiny, rueful shrug.

"He can. But whether he will is another story," Steve said darkly, giving the cabin a skeptical glance. "He's already helped us by doing this much, I guess."

"What's he like?" she continued, curious despite herself. "Is he as bad as Howard?"

Steve gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Worse."

Beatrice's eyebrows shot up. _"Worse?_ How is that possible? He's another one of the Avengers, isn't he? He's a…superhero."

"Yeah, well, that depends on your definition," Steve said, seemingly before he could help himself, and then shook his head. "I shouldn't say that. He is a good man. He saved all of us in New York. He's just…"

"Difficult?" Beatrice guessed, feeling a pang when she thought of Howard. She couldn't believe he had actually settled down. Tony's mother must have been an extraordinary woman.

The corners of Steve's mouth quirked up; he seemed to be laughing at some private joke. "Well, that's one word for it."

"Is he going to be upset that we're late?" she asked worriedly. Could he tell that his plane had taken a detour?

"Probably not," Steve replied with a shrug; Beatrice relaxed slightly at his casual tone. "I suspect Fury will take his time giving him the memo."

"Why are we going to D.C., anyway?" she continued. "Are we going to the Smithsonian?" Maybe there was something at the Captain America exhibit he wanted to show her. Hadn't he said there was a plaque dedicated to her? But why would he show her something she already knew about? Beatrice doubted that the museum had any information that she hadn't already been told.

The last traces of Steve's smile disappeared, and he glanced away from her again, down at his hands resting on his knees. "You'll see."

Deciding that she could wait for that particular answer, Beatrice realized there was one pressing thing she hadn't told him about, and decided now was as good a time as ever to do so. "Steve," she began, "Remember when I told you that Zola did something to me with the Tesseract?"

He was immediately alert, leaning toward her attentively and his gaze sharp. Something like anger flashed across his face, though it was gone as quickly as it came. "Yeah," he replied. "Did you learn anything more?"

Beatrice nodded hesitantly, wringing her hands in her lap. "When I woke up back there, I…I was able to move things without touching them. I knocked one of the agent's guns away when I was nowhere near it. And…and when they—Zola and Pierce—sent Bucky after me, I remember there were papers on one of the tables that moved of their own accord. Like someone had thrown them at him, only there was no one around."

"Like telekinesis?" Steve asked gently.

"I—I guess," Beatrice said helplessly. "It sounds ridiculous, I know, but—"

"Not as ridiculous as some of the things I've seen," Steve commented wryly. "The Tesseract could do many things—I wouldn't be surprised if it gave you a power like that."

She looked around the cabin for something to summon, and her eyes landed on an empty bottle sitting at the bar. "Here, I'll try it now," she said, and stretched her hand out toward it, searching for that peculiar tingling in her fingers, the sudden jolt of energy in her chest. She closed her eyes and jerked her arm back in a pulling motion—

And nothing. The bottle remained sitting on the table, not having moved an inch. Surprised, Beatrice tried again, but it stayed still, without even a wobble. She hadn't even felt a spark, and the blue glow around her fingers was absent. She turned back to Steve, eyes wide. "I swear it worked last time," she said desperately. "Just after I woke up."

"Maybe you'll have to be knocked out more often," he said, with a dry smile. When she didn't smile back, he added, "Don't worry about it, Beatrice. I'm hardly an expert in this sort of thing, anyway. I'm sure Tony will figure it out."

She expected him to go back and sit with Sam, but instead he remained sitting, his eyes downcast. It was clear he was concentrating on something, probably planning out their next course of action. She saw his fingers twitch as if longing for his sketchbook. Beatrice returned to gazing out the window, feeling every slight movement of the plane, imagining the vast ocean spread out beneath them. Was Steve afraid of it, too? she wondered. Did he still dream about being trapped in the Valkyrie, beneath water and ice and metal? But those were personal questions, she told herself firmly. Besides, what would she do if he said no—if she was the only one with lingering nightmares?

The night wore on, and eventually Steve's breathing evened out into a steady, deep pattern. Beatrice glanced over at him to see that he had fallen asleep, his head leaning back against the chair, his hands still resting on the armrests. His eyelids were fluttering madly; she wondered what he was dreaming about.

Seeing him made Beatrice realize just how tired _she_ was; her eyes were scratchy and sore and her limbs felt heavy. She hadn't fallen asleep of her own accord since she'd been awoken—twice with morphine by Natasha, and a blow on the head from the Hydra agent. It was so tempting just to close her eyes and let herself drift off…she couldn't actually _see_ the ocean, anyway; they might as well have been flying over land for all she knew.

That was the last coherent thought she had before she finally let sleep rise up to claim her.

* * *

Beatrice drifted back to the conscious world slowly, for once not panicking the moment she opened her eyes. She felt pleasantly relaxed, as if she'd had the best night's sleep in ages. Thinking back to the moments just before she had succumbed to the exhaustion, she recalled hushed voices around her and stumbling, half-conscious, into the back of a car. The plane must have landed without her realizing, and they'd taken her to—where, exactly?

She yawned and sat up groggily; she was lying on a bed whose blankets were scratchy but comfortable. The room was small, with nondescript wallpaper and heavy drapes covering the single window. A television was mounted on the wall across from the bed, Beatrice's reflection staring back at her, and a door off to the side led to a small bathroom. Directly to her left was a desk, at which sat Steve, poring over what looked like a letter. When he saw she was awake, he immediately put it down, relief crossing his face.

"Hey, Beatrice," he greeted her carefully—likely not wanting to set her off before she'd even properly woken up. "You were out for almost twelve hours."

Beatrice's eyebrows shot up. "Twelve hours?" she echoed, glancing at what she assumed was the clock on the desk; it displayed the time in glowing red numbers. "I haven't slept for that long since before…"

"Before the serum," Steve finished for her. "Yeah, I haven't needed as much sleep, either. But I figured you could use it. Jet lag might factor into it, too," he added with a crooked smile.

Beatrice was suddenly aware of how horrible she must look, and wished she had a hairbrush—to keep her hands busy if nothing else. Steve had seen her looking much worse, it was true—she'd lived with him once, after all—but she still felt as if she was on uncertain terms with this Steve, who was leader of the Avengers and who had battled aliens and knew how to navigate this world much better than she did. She'd never quite gotten used to his new body either—he was intimidating in a way that was strange and almost foreign to her, though she knew it was irrational. Whereas Bucky had been at his side for the year they'd led the Howling Commandos, Beatrice had only gotten to see Steve a handful of times during those months, and for very brief snatches at that. She knew it was selfish to even think about—he'd gotten everything he wanted—but she missed the awkward, unsure pre-Captain America Steve Rogers more than she cared to admit.

"Beatrice?" he asked, looking bewildered, and she jerked herself back to alertness, feeling her face warm.

"Sorry. I was just thinking," she mumbled hastily. "Where are we? Where's Sam?"

Steve folded up the letter he had been reading and slipped it into his coat pocket. "We're at a hotel in Washington. It was still dark when we landed, and I figured you needed the rest. Sam's gone back home."

"Home?" Beatrice echoed. "I thought he was with you."

"Not all the time," Steve admitted. "He has a life here in D.C., and I don't think he wants to change that right now. I was lucky he even went with me to Europe. I can't ask him to do any more than that."

Beatrice fidgeted uncomfortably. "I hope he's not angry I ruined it."

"Ruined what?" Steve asked in confusion.

"Your search for Bucky," she confessed, smoothing out a wrinkle on the pillow and avoiding his gaze. "You might have found him if it hadn't been for me."

"Beatrice, no—that's not what I meant at all," Steve exclaimed, so vehemently that she automatically glanced up at him. He'd angled his chair toward her and looked very serious. "The whole reason we were in Europe in the first place was because of you. If Natasha hadn't called, we'd still be here."

This was something she hadn't anticipated. _"Natasha_ told you about me?"

"Yeah. She and Clint were the ones who found you." Before she could ask any more questions, he gestured to a plastic bag sitting on the desk. "I bought some food in case you were hungry when you woke up."

Beatrice hadn't known how hungry she actually was until the smell of freshly cooked eggs wafted towards her, and all other thoughts were chased out of her mind as she hurried forward to eat.

* * *

"What is this place?"

Beatrice's voice was hushed as Steve led her through a leafy courtyard, birds twittering around them and a fountain trickling somewhere close by. The walk from the hotel hadn't been far at all, though she probably wouldn't have noticed if it was—she had been too busy staring at the impossibly fast cars whizzing by on the street and trying _not_ to stare at the people who passed by them. Everyone's clothes were bright and strangely pattered; there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the fashion. Some girls had streaks of purple and pink in their hair, and men had their ears pierced, with one even sporting a ring in his nose. It was as if there was a competition to look as ridiculous as possible; Beatrice was glad _she_ hadn't been asked to dress like that.

"This doesn't look like the Smithsonian," she tried again as a low brick building came into view; most of the windows had balconies attached and it was surrounded by leafy green trees and flower gardens in full bloom. A long, winding gravel driveway led to the main street—she could hear the steady hum of traffic in the distance.

"It's not the Smithsonian," Steve replied, beckoning her up to the front doors. They slid open automatically, and Beatrice fought to control her surprise as they emerged into a spacious, airy lobby with gold carpeting and a fireplace set into the wall. An aquarium with brightly-colored tropical fish stood next to the front desk, behind which sat a middle-aged woman whose clothes were thankfully a bit more conservative. Beatrice knew there were a lot of things she would have to get used to in this new, strange world, and her heart hurt at the thought.

"It can't be," the receptionist muttered as they walked up to the desk. She grabbed a pair of rectangular glasses and all but shoved them onto her nose as she stared, open-mouthed, at Steve. _"Captain America?"_

He shuffled in embarrassment and glanced away, catching Beatrice's eye with a small, resigned smile that showed he had evidently been through this exchange many times, before admitting, "Yes, I am."

The woman blinked wordlessly at him for a full five seconds—Beatrice counted—before suddenly seeming to remember herself and stood up, grasping Steve's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "They told me you'd visited before, but I never would have thought—you must have been busy; I heard about what happened to S.H.I.E.L.D. Well, hasn't everyone?" She chuckled nervously and cleared her throat, her face bright pink. "But I suspect you're tired of hearing that—oh!" She pulled out a note that had come fluttering out of one of the folders in her frantic clearing of the desk and read it quickly. "Wouldn't you know, I have the notice of your arrival right here. Mr. Hartley is expecting you."

Beatrice went numb. _Mr. Hartley. Henry._ And then the pieces suddenly clicked in her mind, and she cursed herself for not figuring it out sooner. He lived in a retirement home in D.C.—she had read it in his file! Granted, there was nothing about this place that distinguished it as such, but she ought to have guessed—why else would they be here?

"Steve," she whispered frantically, "I—I can't do this. I can't see Henry. Not now."

With a quick, polite smile at the receptionist, he gently took Beatrice by the wrist and led her over to the elevators, out of the woman's earshot. "Yes, you can," he said quietly, his blue eyes steady. "Nothing else will make sense if you don't. Believe me. Besides, he's already on his way down here."

Beatrice stared, terrified, up at Steve, whose gaze didn't waver from hers. "Did you call ahead?" she managed to choke out.

He shook his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "No. I didn't."

"Then who did?"

Before he could answer, the elevator doors slid open with a ding, and Beatrice found herself staring into a pair of bright green eyes.

She knew it was him right away. Despite the shock of white hair and the aged, wrinkled face, the color of her brother's eyes, though now clouded with cataracts, hadn't changed since the day of his birth. _"Henry,"_ she gasped, and began to cry.

* * *

It took Steve and Henry a combined effort of ten minutes to calm Beatrice down enough so that she could speak again, but she was still shaking like a leaf and her thoughts were still moving at the speed of light.

"I'm sorry," she gulped as they sat down on a stone bench in the courtyard outside facing the fountain. A group of elderly women had stared at them as they'd passed, but Beatrice suspected they had been looking at Steve rather than her. "I don't—I can't believe this. Any of it."

Henry, whose gaze bore into her like a drill—he was like Ivan, so like Ivan—smiled even wider, his face creasing. He hadn't stopped smiling since he'd seen her. "It will take time to adjust," he told her, putting a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. "Just ask Captain Rogers."

Beatrice glanced up at Steve, who was standing in front of them, and he nodded. "I _still_ haven't adjusted," he said ruefully. "But…you gotta try your best."

"You've been here before, I'm guessing," she replied with a raised eyebrow.

Steve looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck in a warmly familiar gesture. "I visited him not long after I woke up. At Peggy's insistence, actually. I didn't think he'd want to talk to me, not after what happened to you."

Henry laughed out loud this time, his eyes crinkling. Beatrice watched him in mingled awe and disbelief; she couldn't quite believe that this old, stooped man was her baby brother. He would be seventy-two now, but he seemed to have a limitless supply of energy. He simultaneously seemed much older and younger than he actually was. "We used to say that to disobey Agent Carter's orders was to risk losing either our jobs or our lives."

"From what I knew of her, you're not wrong," Beatrice remarked; the entire conversation had taken on a surreal quality. She watched a bumblebee land on a dandelion next to the bench before asking, "So you know Nick Fury as well?"

"Of course I know that bastard!" Henry exclaimed, though his tone was affectionate. "He became the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. shortly before I retired. Ruled it with an iron fist, too." His face suddenly darkened, his eyes narrowing. "In all the years I was an agent, I never suspected it had been infiltrated."

"Neither did anyone else," Steve said quietly. It was impossible to tell what he was really thinking. "They fooled thousands of people, Agent Hartley—Henry."

Beatrice looked first at Steve, and then at Henry, before dropping her gaze into her lap. "They're the reason I'm still alive," she admitted softly. "Hydra."

Henry bowed his head. "I know," he said. "When I first learned about my…birth family, I was fortunate enough to come across some old Strategic Scientific Reserve files that labeled you as having been a prisoner of Hydra's during the war, and you were never officially declared deceased. But…I had long given up hope. I could not believe it when Natalia told me that you had been found."

She sensed Steve stiffen, and she immediately stared over at him, trying very hard not to sound accusatory. "Natalia," she repeated slowly. "Are you talking about Natasha? Natasha Romanoff?"

"Yes," Steve answered quietly. "She's why I brought you here first."

Henry looked puzzled. "You mean you have not told her?" he asked Steve, who shook his head.

"It wasn't my story to tell," he explained. "And I didn't want to overwhelm Beatrice any more than she already was…"

Beatrice thought of the red-haired woman's catlike grace and her unflinching green stare. She had recognized her features right away despite never having met her before. Deciding to test her theory, she guessed, "Natasha—is she Ivan and Luisa's granddaughter, then? Did they have a child?"

Steve and Henry shared a long glance before Henry shook his head, a smile curving across his lips as he replied, "No, not theirs. Natalia is _my_ daughter."


	42. XLII

"As you know, I was raised to believe that Ivan and Luisa were my parents," Henry began, his gaze taking on a faraway, almost wistful quality as he told his story. Steve had quietly slipped away to give them privacy, and Beatrice's own eyes were on the blond man's retreating back. "I grew up in Volgograd—forgive me, you would have known it as Stalingrad—and was ignorant of my true parentage until I was eighteen. Ivan was often away when I was a child, though of course I believed he was working for the state." Henry gave a small, rueful smile. "He was as vague as possible whenever I questioned him, and I realize now that he was trying to minimize his lies. And I understand why he had to do it, now. It was dangerous for me to know anything else. But then…one day…he told me that he must leave for America, that he had discovered something of great importance that would impact his friends there. I was angry, knowing he had lied to me about who he was, about what he did."

Henry's eyes briefly flickered closed, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows as they drew closer together. He swallowed hard, as if he was gathering the courage to speak again. "He was murdered before he even boarded the plane. I held him in my arms as he died. I chased after the shooter, but I was not fast enough. To this day, I do not know why he was targeted."

"You said he discovered something—what was it?" Beatrice asked, tearing her eyes off of Steve to glance at her brother, who shook his head in apparent frustration.

"If I knew, I would tell you. It appears no one else does, either. But of course he had many enemies—it is unavoidable in our line of work." Henry sighed, and Beatrice could see how tired he was, the type of exhaustion sleep wouldn't fix. She knew the feeling well.

"When I returned to Luisa, she finally told me the truth—that I had been born not in Volgograd, but in New York. That my father was a soldier who had turned to drink. That my mother had died giving birth to me. That my older sister had been serving as a nurse on the battlefield when she disappeared during a blizzard and was presumed dead. And…that my birth name was Henry Hartley.

"With her help, I managed to leave the country, to travel to America in search of answers. Luisa had given me the name of Howard Stark, and I was able to secure a meeting with him almost immediately. He mentioned that he and Ivan had been close, and was devastated to hear of his death. He was shocked that I had been able to escape the Soviet Union, and offered me a job at the newly-formed S.H.I.E.L.D.

"At first I refused—and not for the reasons you might think; Ivan had always been critical of the Soviet regime, and encouraged me to be the same. I simply did not want a life like his—always keeping secrets, even from those you love most." Henry laughed under his breath, and some of the heaviness lifted from his expression. "Of course, before long my curiosity got the better of me, and I did eventually become an agent. My knowledge of Russian allowed me to infiltrate the country with ease, and I became exactly what Ivan had once been—a double agent who passed vital information along to S.H.I.E.L.D. A spy, if you like. I suppose it runs in the family.

"It was while posted in Volgograd that I met the woman I would marry." He looked down at his left hand, and Beatrice noticed a slim golden band on his finger. "Her name was Tatiana Nikolaevna," he continued, and there was no mistaking the reverence in his voice. "She was from Saint Petersburg—Leningrad—and was also a field agent. She ran circles around me from the moment we met. Natalia may resemble me in appearance, but her personality is much more like her mother's. Tatiana was wary and aloof at first, preferring to work alone, but after several missions she gradually began to warm up to me. She always remained an enigma. I was just the lucky fool who wouldn't give up on her. She used to say she admired my persistence.

"Our decision to marry was initially met with disapproval by our superiors, but we were both loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D. and dedicated to our work. We decided to make our permanent home in Volgograd and soon had children of our own. Two sons, Viktor and Alexei, and a daughter, Natalia." Henry's eyes were glassy, and Beatrice quickly looked away, knowing he was fighting back tears. Birdsong filled the silence before he quietly continued.

"Those few short years were the happiest of my life. But I know now that I was foolish to think I could have both worlds, that I could keep my family safe while secretly defying the regime." Henry sucked in a sharp breath. "When Natalia was six months old, our apartment building was set on fire by the KGB. Tatiana, Viktor, and Alexei were all killed in the blaze. It was the dead of night, and I could not wake them in time. But I, who was still awake taking care of Natalia, managed to escape with her. I knew that she would be not be safe with me, that there was a target on my back, so I gave her to the only person I trusted—a family friend named Petrov. He knew of my involvement with S.H.I.E.L.D., and promised to take care of her. Unfortunately, I only found out much later that he was sympathetic to Hydra and was likely the one who tipped off the KGB to our location in the first place. He turned Natalia over to the Red Room, a Soviet espionage training facility, where she was indoctrinated to become a weapon for the KGB itself.

"Believing Natalia safe, I fled to the United States, where Howard set up a safe house for me here in Washington. I eventually continued my work with S.H.I.E.L.D., though it was strictly at the Triskelion and I never returned to Russia. I tried to contact Petrov when I deemed it safe, but my source informed me he had been killed at the dissolution of the Soviet Union. I spent many years searching for my daughter, interrogating suspects and trying to find clues, but I only hit dead ends. There was no possible way for me to find her.

"Soon after, I retired from S.H.I.E.L.D. and have resided here ever since. It is a comfortable life, but I was always wracked with guilt over the deaths of my wife and children. And then, ten years ago, I was reunited with Natalia, who was then twenty. She had defected from the KGB and become a recruit at S.H.I.E.L.D. herself. She had known about me for quite a while, having done her research, and I do not blame her for keeping her distance at first. But I suppose, like me, her curiosity eventually won out. I am grateful it did, as I was finally able to apologize to her. She explained that she had searched for her family once she had graduated from the Red Room, but as she had nothing to go on aside from her name, and I was no longer living as Alian Romanov, she could not find me, either. She did come across a very interesting rumor that we are descended from the last ruling czars of Russia, but that is no matter…" Henry settled back into the bench, looking as if a huge weight had been lifted off him. "It took us a while, but we slowly began to build a relationship again. She has never blamed me for what she went through, though I cannot imagine the horrors she must have experienced that no child should ever have to face. She has proven herself to be one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s finest agents as well as one of the Avengers. I could not be more proud of her."

Beatrice was silent for a long moment, trying to take it all in—the sister-in-law she never knew; the _nephews_ she never knew and would never know. Natasha had been six months old when she was taken away—the same age as Henry was when she had given him to Ivan. Life was strange in its parallels sometimes, she thought. "Does anyone else know you are related to her? Aside from Steve, of course."

Henry nodded. "Nick Fury does—in fact, he was the one who first discovered our connection, I think, and enabled Natalia to contact me. Later on she told Agent Barton; I rather like him, he is good for her. Of course I told Captain Rogers when he first came to visit, knowing that he had been close with you. But aside from that, no one. She chooses to use an alias when she visits."

"That makes sense," Beatrice mumbled. So Natasha had known all along that Beatrice was her… _aunt._ At least that explained her familiarity and the strange impression that she'd known her somehow.

And Steve had known, too. Beatrice turned her head in the direction he had disappeared, but the path was empty. Did Natasha know that Steve knew? Was that why they seemed so close?

Henry cleared his throat, his voice cracking slightly, and Beatrice realized he'd probably spoken more today than he had in years. She hoped the outing hadn't exhausted him even more. "I am assuming you have already met Natalia?"

"Yes," Beatrice answered haltingly. "She was one of the first people I saw after awakening. Director Fury seems to trust her very much."

"Oh, he does, even if he doesn't show it," Henry replied evenly. "I daresay she is the closest thing to a daughter he has ever had. Trust does not come easily to those in our line of work." He reached over and patted Beatrice's hand, closing his fingers over her wrist. "There is something I wish to give to you," he said. "I no longer have use for it, but it may prove useful to you now."

Beatrice watched curiously as Henry pulled a small, quartz-colored stone out of his pocket and held it up to the light. They both watched it sparkle and shimmer as if it emitted its own brightness rather than reflecting the sun. "The Norn Stone," she whispered, and Henry turned to her in some surprise.

"So you know of it, then," he said. "Ivan showed it to you?"

She nodded. "He told me that it's been in the Romanov family for generations. He said he was able to see his enemies using it."

Henry slowly turned it over in his palm, rolling it around his fingers. "But it did not help him in the end. Rather…cruelly ironic, is it not? Just as it did not help me from realizing I had given my own daughter to a traitor. I can gauge one's thoughts, as it were," he said in response to Beatrice's baffled expression. "Not exact thoughts, however—just a general impression of their mind. It proved to be useful at times, but it ultimately failed me, just as it failed Ivan. It cannot help if its user does not want to listen. Please remember that, Beatrice."

She stared at it as though transfixed, remembering the flashes of the future she'd seen and her eagerness to know more. But Henry was right; she had no control over what it showed her or what she was supposed to do with the information. Still…she had seen Steve's vibranium shield, even if she hadn't known it at the time. It must have _some_ truth to it. "Henry, I can't take this," she began to say, but her brother looked as if he had anticipated her refusal.

"You must," he insisted. "I have not used it in decades, and it must remain in our family. Natalia refuses to take it. Captain Rogers told me that you are very sensible—I trust you will not allow yourself to rely on it, as I once did."

Before her logical mind could protest, Beatrice was already holding out her hand, squaring her shoulders for the vision that was to come, but she was never quite prepared for the way the world suddenly dropped out from under her feet, the way her surroundings dissolved and twisted until they were something else entirely.

She stumbled sideways, alarmed—and her hand landed on a cold concrete wall. The sensation was so _vivid;_ she could feel the freezing temperature seep into her fingers, and wherever she was, it was very dark. Her breath came out in puffs of white air, and she took an experimental step forward, searching for something—

And then a pinprick of light burst into existence ahead of her, and she stepped away, relieved, as a door opened, its hinges creaking loudly. Electric bulbs flickered on above her, illuminating the long, gloomy hallway she stood in. There were no distinctive markings on the walls or floor that gave her any clue as to where she might be. _Underground,_ she thought. Was it a factory? The walls were concrete and very solid, though thin, spider-like cracks wove along them in seemingly random patterns.

A shadow suddenly blocked out the light overhead, and Beatrice tensed as a figure appeared in the doorway, though she knew it was just a vision. But as they came into view, she felt relief course through her. It was Steve, Steve in his Captain America uniform, though the pattern was slightly different from what she remembered. It was darker and sleeker, with none of the garish coloring that adorned his USO suit. He held his shield in front of him as if he expected to duck behind it at any second.

"Steve?" Beatrice asked, but no sound came out of her mouth. He wasn't looking at her, but at something next to her. She sensed movement at her side, and she turned her head to see who it was, but she was suddenly paralyzed.

Steve's silhouette twisted and then reformed into two shadows as someone else came up beside him this time. The gleam of metal was unmistakable, and Beatrice watched with bated breath as Bucky melted out of the shadows, wearing a dark vest and tactical boots. His hair was longer now, almost down to his shoulders, and stubble coated the lower half of his face in darkness. He carried a sniper rifle, and was pointing it at whoever stood next to Beatrice.

"No!" she cried, fighting wildly to break out of the invisible shackles. She leapt forward—Steve and Bucky turned to look at her—

And then she was sitting on the bench again, her heart hammering and her mind in shambles. Breathing hard, she slowly looked up at Henry, whose concern was plain on his face. Clearly her reaction had been noticeable. "What do you see?" he asked.

Beatrice straightened up, bracing her palms on her knees and shaking the hair out of her eyes; she didn't care for the sleek, sharp hairstyles of the new century. Her reply came in the form of a question: "H—how did you stand it? Losing everything?"

Again his face relaxed until the calm serenity was back in his eyes. "I have lost much, that is true. But there is still life in me yet. I have my daughter, and now I have my sister." A slow smile crept across his face, growing wider with every word. "What is the saying? That every cloud has a silver lining. You may have to search everywhere to find it, but it is always there."

And despite herself, despite the almost overwhelming fear and confusion and despair that had refused to cease since she had fought Lorraine, Beatrice smiled back.

* * *

"Still wondering why I took you to D.C.?"

Steve leaned against the side of the chair, holding a glass of dark, fizzing liquid and looking down at her. The side of his mouth was curved up in the ghost of a smile.

Beatrice grinned back, ruefully, and lifted her head from where she had been resting it on her hand. The cabin shone with sunlight, warming the surface of the window. The bright blue expanse of the sky stretched around them as the plane flew northward, up the coast to New York. The flight would be less than an hour, to Beatrice's relief. "I understand _now,"_ she replied. "But I still don't see why you couldn't have prepared me beforehand."

"Yeah, that was my fault," Steve admitted. He held out the glass to her. "But I figured you already had enough to think about on the way over here."

Beatrice's wary eyes flickered between him and the liquid before she took it gingerly, deciding to trust him. As soon as she raised it to her lips she could taste the sweet, carbonated flavor of Coke, bringing with it memories of a smoky dance hall and Bucky's smirking face. She quickly put it down, hoping Steve wouldn't notice. Thankfully he appeared to be waiting for her to speak first.

"So you knew all along, then," she began, absent-mindedly running her finger along the rim of the glass just as she had done when Bucky was sitting across from her a lifetime ago. "That Henry is Natasha's father."

"Not exactly," Steve replied. His eyes were fixed on the glass, at the bubbles rising up to the surface. "When I met her, I knew she had to be related to you _somehow_. The red hair and the name Romanoff was kind of a giveaway. Not to mention her affiliation with S.H.I.E.L.D." Now a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I thought she must be Ivan's granddaughter, too. But I didn't get a chance to ask her about it. We were..."

"Busy saving New York," Beatrice prompted, at which Steve's grin almost turned genuine.

"I guess that's one way to put it. Not everybody would use those particular words." Before she could question him, he quickly continued the explanation. "It was Peggy who encouraged me to visit Henry. I didn't think he'd want to see me after what I thought happened to you, but he was thrilled. He wanted to hear about you. He said he wished he could remember his sister."

Beatrice smiled fondly, remembering the warm goodbye Henry had given them. But she couldn't ignore the ache in her chest that appeared every time she thought of her baby brother as an old man. "And he told you about Natasha," she guessed, not wanting the conversation to fade.

"Yes. I never told her that I knew, even when we started going on missions together. Actually, we've _still_ never talked about it. But she knows that I know." Steve's eyebrows drew together in thought. "I think that might be one of the reasons she trusted me more easily—or whatever Natasha's equivalent is of trust. Besides, I'm sure Henry told her that you and I were…close. She was probably curious about me more than anything else."

Beatrice took a moment to digest his words before speaking again, hoping to inject as much fervency into her voice as possible. "Thank you, Steve," she said, a lump springing into her throat. "For everything."

It wasn't nearly enough—nothing she could do or say would ever be enough—but something about the look in Steve's eyes told her he understood. His expression softened, and Beatrice badly wanted to wrap her arms around him, to bury her face in his broad shoulders and try to communicate to him just how much she appreciated him, but feared he would be uncomfortable. Every time she hugged Steve, she always ended up sobbing and he was left in the awkward position of trying to comfort her. So instead she changed the subject, hoping he wouldn't question the sudden transition. "I've always wanted to visit Washington," she remarked as lightly as she could. "I wish I'd gotten to see more of it."

"I'm sure you will someday," Steve told her. "Sam is a great tour guide."

"Didn't you live there?" Beatrice asked, raising an eyebrow. "When you worked for S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Yeah," he admitted. "But I didn't see much of it."

"Why not?" she said skeptically. Surely he couldn't have been away on missions _all_ the time.

Steve hesitated for a fraction of a second, blue eyes glancing away from her, before her met her gaze again, sounding almost reluctant to speak. "I kept myself busy instead. When I had free time I was reading about everything I'd missed. Guess I just didn't feel like going out." He grinned ruefully, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. But Beatrice could see the truth that lay beneath—Steve had deliberately thrown himself into his work as a coping mechanism instead of trying to interact with the new world in a healthier way. And she couldn't blame him.

"I probably would have done the same thing," she confessed, folding her hands in her lap. "I don't know what I'd be like now if you hadn't been here, Steve. But…but you should have stayed in Switzerland to look for Bucky."

Steve mimicked her posture, crossing his arms on the table that separated them and leaned toward her. "Sam was right," he said after a moment. "You need me more than Bucky does right now. Actually, I'm probably the _last_ thing he needs." He tried, and failed, to hide his wince. "I couldn't leave you by yourself, Beatrice. Hydra's after both of you, but Bucky knows how they work and how to evade them. And there's no guarantee we would have been able to find him. He could be in Africa by now."

"But you're not going to stop trying to find him in the meantime," she realized.

Steve shook his head slowly, almost thoughtfully. "No."

Beatrice leaned back in her chair and exhaled softly. She wasn't sure what bothered her more—the fact that it would be nearly impossible to find Bucky again, or the fact that he didn't _want_ them to find him. Trying her hardest to push the thought out of her mind, she remarked, "You mentioned Peggy. How is she doing? Her file said that she's back in England."

Steve's face fell ever so slightly, and Beatrice immediately regretted bringing up the topic. "She moved there after retiring. She's…all right, I guess. She has Alzheimer's—good days and bad days. Sometimes we'll be able to talk like not a day has passed since '45, and other times…well, she doesn't recognize me at all."

Beatrice tried to imagine Agent Carter as an old, frail woman, confined to bed and slowly losing herself in her own mind, and couldn't. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. Besides, she's lived a good life." The implication _without me_ was clear in Steve's words. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

There was a twinge of something in the pit of Beatrice's stomach, but she didn't know what it was. "Steve…" she began, unsure how to comfort him, but before she could continue the intercom above them crackled to life and the pilot's voice announced, "We're cleared for landing at LaGuardia in ten minutes, Captain Rogers."

"Great," said Steve, though he sounded as if it was anything but. "Are you ready, Beatrice?"

She nodded, trying not to betray the anxiety that suddenly rose up inside her chest. "I think so. But the airport—LaGuardia—does that have anything to do with the mayor? _Our_ mayor?"

"Actually, it does," Steve said, looking both surprised and pleased. "It was named after him. New York is the same in some ways…but very different in others. The tenement is still there."

"In Flatbush?" Beatrice asked in awe. "It's still standing?"

"Yeah. A lot of the buildings are. I'll take you there someday," Steve offered, and Beatrice mentally filed that note away in the back of her mind. Somehow just knowing that the apartment she'd shared with Steve still existed made her feel as if the world wasn't entirely foreign.

The plane's wing dipped as it began to circle toward the airport, the cabin pressure increasing as they descended, and despite herself, Beatrice couldn't resist the temptation to peer out of the window. The first thing she saw was the ocean below them, whitecaps gleaming in the sun, boats streaking across the water. On land, rows and rows of buildings stretched out into the horizon, as far as she could see, punctuated by long, winding roads. Could this be Brooklyn?

She moved her gaze further north, across the East River to Manhattan—and froze. The skyline had certainly changed, the glittering skyscrapers taller and narrower, hundreds of them springing up across the island, but Beatrice had expected that. What she hadn't expected was its familiarity, the realization that she had seen exactly this image before, but from a different vantage point.

This was the New York she had seen in the Norn Stone, the unsettling vision of the future where its inhabitants had all worn the same glazed expression, the same unnaturally blue eyes. Beatrice's head whipped around to Steve, half-expecting to see that he had turned into one of them—but his eyes were still the same light blue as ever, his gaze alert. "You all right?" he asked, frowning.

Beatrice loosened her grip on the armrests and tore her eyes away from the city, firmly telling herself it had been just that—a vision, and there was no guarantee it would ever come to pass. Henry had even told her not to rely on it. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," she said, a bit breathlessly. The Norn Stone was burning a hole in her pocket, but she wasn't about to touch it again.

She was finally home, but it didn't feel like a homecoming.


	43. XLIII

At the end of the war, after Beatrice had officially been declared missing in action, her belongings had been given to Ivan after being investigated by the SSR. He had kept them hidden for many years, and it was only upon his death that Henry Hartley came into possession of his sister's effects—a stack of letters she had written and received during the time she'd served at the 107th Field Hospital, as well as various medals, ribbons and pins that had been awarded to her posthumously, including the Purple Heart and the Florence Nightingale Medal. Although her name was also displayed on the Wall of Valor at the Triskelion, Henry had always preferred the more personal nature of the commendations. He kept them in a safety deposit box under a loose floorboard in his quarters, wishing to keep the relics safely concealed. So concealed, in fact, that the shock of meeting his lost sibling had completely erased any thought of returning Beatrice's belongings to her, forgotten until he had already returned to his room.

Henry knew, logically, that his memory was no longer as sharp as it had once been, but that didn't prevent him from being any less frustrated when his eyes landed on the place where the letters were hidden. Muttering a Russian profanity under his breath, he retrieved his rarely-used cane from behind the door and used the handle to pry open the floorboard. A cloud of dust wafted up from the gap, and Henry coughed despite himself, waving away the dirt with his hand as he listened closely for any nurses who might have happened to hear him.

When he was certain he was in the clear, he bent over to retrieve the yellowed papers—wincing only slightly as his aging muscles protested—and placed them on his desk below the open window. A light breeze blew in from the gardens below, the bench where he and Beatrice had spoken empty now. It was a beautiful spring day, and the cloudless blue sky seemed limitless, clear except for the distant white speck of a plane climbing out of Dulles. Henry watched it grow fainter with a sense of wistfulness he hadn't felt in a long time; Beatrice had invited him to accompany her and Steve, but he'd refused—Washington was his home in a way New York or even Russia had never been.

After replacing the floorboard, Henry straightened up and moved to sit at his desk, prepared to call Natasha and notify her of his findings—but a flash of silver caught his eye, gleaming for a split second between the pages, and Henry immediately tensed. For a moment he was back in Moscow and watching Ivan fall to the ground, blood spilling onto the floor, and the glint of metal on the tarmac as the sniper lowered his rifle.

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose and forced himself back into the present. He had long ago learned to compartmentalize his emotions, but occasionally they would get the better of him. Without pausing to drive the memories out of his mind completely, he reached forward and unearthed a pair of rusted silver dog tags, the chain spilling out of the yellowed envelope. He hadn't read any of Beatrice's letters, believing it to be an invasion of privacy especially now that she was indeed alive, but the name on the tags, though faded, was still legible and startlingly familiar:

JAMES B. BARNES  
32557038  
BROOKLYN, N.Y.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, her fiancé, had been killed during an ambush on a Hydra train shortly before Beatrice herself had gone missing. Henry had met several of the remaining Howling Commandos during his lifetime and visited the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, but seeing James Barnes's dog tags next to one of his letters, the man who might have once been his brother-in-law, ignited a burning curiosity inside of him. The envelope was still sealed, meaning that Beatrice hadn't gotten a chance to open it before her disappearance. Ivan had once told him that letters could take months to be delivered during the war, even if they were just crossing one or two borders. Barnes must have written it before his fall from the train. Henry hesitated, deliberating—and then his decades-old instincts as a spy took over and he slid his thumb under the envelope, shaking out not one, but two sheets of paper from inside:

_Rosie,_

_How are you doing, doll? They better be treating you well at the field hospital. Your uncle said you might be in London for Christmas—maybe we'll get a chance to see each other again. It's been four months and I still think about you every day. You better not still be blaming yourself for your friend's death. It's not your fault. You did all you could._

_You're gonna kick me for this, but I'm sure you know that a lot of guys give their sweethearts their dog tags, and I can't give you a ring, so this is all I have. You don't have to wear it or anything, but I should have given it to you when we last saw each other. Steve thought it was a good idea, but since when does_ he  _know anything about good ideas? He nearly got us all killed yesterday and didn't even bother making a strategy before he marched us all straight into Bucharest to take out a Hydra base. I swear the idiot would be dead if it wasn't for me._

_Don't worry though, doll, I'm not planning on dying yet. Not before I get you a proper ring. I want to marry you more than I knew I could ever want anything. Sometimes I think the thought of you is the only thing that keeps me going, Rosie._

_The other guys all want to know what happened when we were in that Hydra cell, but I haven't told anyone. Not even Steve. It's been a year, and I still dream about it. I dream that I'm back in there, locked up with you, and I don't care what happens to me._

_I want to do all of it again, Rosie. And I swear we will when we next see each other. I'll bring you to a nice hotel, somewhere we can spend the night without anyone else, and the next morning we'll get married. I don't care if that's in the wrong order. This damned war won't keep us apart any longer._

_Bucky_

_P.S. I'm including one of Steve's letters in here—we don't know how long we'll be in Romania and he wanted to send you something too._

Henry knew he had already read too much; he felt as if he'd interrupted an intimate moment between lovers despite neither party being present—but he still could not stop himself from reading Captain Rogers's letter as well, which was thankfully less revealing:

_Dear Beatrice,_

_I hope this letter will reach you before Christmas, though I'll probably see you in person before then. We're in Romania at the moment and I'm not sure how long we'll be here, but Colonel Phillips told us our next stop is Berlin and we'll likely be back in London by the holidays._

_Things are going as well as they can be here; we raided a couple of Hydra bases around Bucharest the other day and Bucky saved our skins as usual (but don't tell him I said that). He really misses you, Beatrice. He keeps making excuses to get sent to the field hospital—last week he twisted his ankle and insisted that he could barely walk and he had to receive medical attention as soon as possible. So far Phillips hasn't listened to him, as I'm sure you can guess._

_You asked me to pass on your thanks to Peggy—Agent Carter—in your last letter for lending her dress to you when we were at the Whip & Fiddle, and she says that you can borrow it anytime you're in London. Bucky keeps saying I should ask her to dance, but we haven't seen each other very often. Maybe one day I'll finally have the guts to ask a gal to dance._

_Look, I just wanted to tell you that I listed both you and Bucky as my next of kin in case something happens to me out here. I really hope you don't mind, Beatrice, but you and Buck are the closest things I have to family. I've been on my own ever since my ma died, and I know you would take care of the apartment if I couldn't._

_Also—Ivan wants me to pass on the message that both he and Henry are doing well. He wishes he could write, but apparently the mail from Stalingrad is being intercepted. He also thinks he might be able to make it to London for Christmas as well, but he's not making any guarantees._

_Anyway, I hope you're doing well and aren't too busy. Howard told us that you're in Amsterdam right now—hopefully the camp will move to Switzerland soon so you won't be in as much danger. The fighting has started to move east, and we're crossing our fingers that the war will be over soon._

_Steve_

She was extraordinarily lucky to find not just one, but two people who were so devoted to her. Suddenly wracked with a sense of belated guilt, Henry pushed the letters away as if they had burned his hands. He shouldn't have opened the private documents, even if they  _had_ mentioned him. He would have to confess to Beatrice that he had read them.

But one paper lay apart from the rest, one that was so crinkled it was barely legible, as if it had been folded and re-folded countless times. And the handwriting didn't belong to either Sergeant Barnes or Captain Rogers, but Henry recognized it instantly: it was Ivan's, dated 1944.

They hadn't just been Beatrice's letters—they had once been in Ivan's possession, too. Most of his belongings had gone to Luisa rather than Henry, but this must have been added to the wrong pile by accident when she was sorting through them after his death.

Henry told himself he would just scan the first few lines and search for anything of interest, but he was so desperate for a piece of Ivan again that his eyes were soon racing across the page.

_Howard,_

_I must confess that I am concerned about the Norn Stone—or rather, what the Norn Stone showed to Beatrice. You know, of course, that I am able to see my enemies using it; well, it appears that it shows my niece glimpses of the future. Before you jump to conclusions—although I suspect you already have—I must stress that they are mere flashes, indications of what the coming decades and centuries have in store. Most of them seemed to be fairly benign, and I shall inform you of more details in person, but there was one particular image I am concerned with. Beatrice described it as a "golden gauntlet"—vague, I understand, but the description matches a story I came across in my search for my Romanov ancestors. According to legend, when Odin gifted one of them the Norn Stone, usable only by our bloodline, the human experienced an unsettling vision, similar to Beatrice. He claimed that he saw the end of the universe, destroyed by a being he referred to as the "Mad Titan". I know not of who or what he referred to, but he describes the Mad Titan as being in possession of such a gauntlet. You may dismiss me, but I believe that two Romanovs experiencing such a vision is no coincidence._

_The story goes that the Mad Titan desired to become the most powerful being in the universe, and he sought six gems known only as the Infinity Stones, which existed before the universe itself was created. A group called the Celestials, far more advanced than us, tried to wield their power and failed. The particulars of their destruction we can never hope to know. As far as humanity is aware, we have never come across such a force—except for the Cosmic Cube._

_And if these myths are to be believed, the Infinity Stones themselves are what created the Norn Stone. If just one stone holds such immense power, imagine what they could unleash if they were joined. I know what you are saying—that it is impossible to know when this will occur, if it ever will, but I firmly believe we ought to study the Cosmic Cube as closely as possible. I hope to meet with Beatrice this Christmas and perhaps give her the Stone again to see if I can procure any more information._

_Yours,_

_Ivan_

Henry sat motionless for a long time, staring at his adoptive father's letter in deliberation and turning the paper over in his fingers, before reaching for his mobile phone and dialing the one number he knew by heart.

It barely rang once before the call was accepted, and a smooth voice asked, "What is it?"

To anyone else, the greeting would have sounded less than friendly—harsh, even—but Henry knew his daughter well enough to know that it only masked the worry beneath. He rarely called her in the middle of the day; much less so when she might have been on a mission. Shifting the phone to his other ear, he stared down at the papers spread across his desk, James Barnes's letter at the forefront.

"My dearest Natalia," Henry began, addressing her in English rather than their native Russian, "I have a favor to ask of you."


	44. XLIV

The moment Beatrice stepped out of the bright yellow taxi that had brought them into the city (apparently Tony Stark had sent a car to collect them, but Steve, as irrationally stubborn as he was, refused to accept the other man's favor) she was hit with a cacophony of noise. Sirens wailing, horns honking, brakes screeching, laughter, talking, shouting…her senses hadn't been so overwhelmed in decades, and she shot a panicked look at Steve, suddenly desperately wanting to escape back into the silence of the taxi. Even D.C. hadn't been this painfully loud.

Somehow, Steve seemed to understand what she meant, and after handing the driver a generous sum of money he hurried around the side of the car and onto the sidewalk, his hand hovering awkwardly around her shoulder as if he wanted to guide her through the throngs of people moving down the road. The buildings were too tall, the streets too narrow. Beatrice felt horribly claustrophobic.

"It's too much," she murmured to Steve as they waited for a gap in the crowd. She felt as if she was about to trip off the curb into traffic. Her head spun, and her heart rate spiked as she imagined the Tesseract's power coiled up inside her, like a hurricane about to wash ashore.

Steve gave her an empathetic look and a cautious smile. "I know," he said. "I ran out into the middle of Times Square. Even Fury admitted that was a mistake on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s part."

Beatrice felt herself laugh nervously. "You told me you  _broke_ out of their facility."

At least he had the decency to look ashamed. "I don't think I used those exact words."

"Close enough."

Bantering with Steve, as light-hearted as it was, helped to ease some of Beatrice's tension, and she relaxed slightly as he led her through the revolving doors into the lobby of Stark Tower, which was decidedly different from the one she remembered. If anything, it reminded her of the Dorchester Hotel, with polished marble floors, mahogany desks, and a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The entire southern wall was a glass window looking out onto the street, but if Beatrice's eyes weren't mistaking her, it was tinted in such a way that those outside couldn't see inside, but those  _inside_  could see out perfectly. Men—and women—wearing suits briskly passed them, not even giving Steve a second glance. Every few seconds a phone on the reception desk would ring, and the caller would be greeted by the smooth voice of a secretary. Beatrice's eyes landed on the elevators alongside the opposite wall; at least  _they_  remained in their original location. The entire operation was like a well-oiled machine.

"This doesn't look like Stark Tower at all," she whispered. "At least not  _Howard's_ Stark Tower."

Steve grimaced. "Actually, it's called Avengers Tower now. Tony insisted on it. He renovated the entire building when he inherited the company."

"If it isn't Mr. Rogers and his neighborhood," a voice announced, and for a surreal moment Beatrice thought she was looking at Howard. The man striding across the lobby toward them was his double in almost every way, from his height and build to the dark hair and eyes. Even his complexion was identical to Howard's, and his tailored, expensive-looking suit could have been taken right out of the inventor's own collection.

Tony Stark stopped in front of them, a wide smirk on his face as he greeted Steve, who had immediately straightened at the sound of his name. "You owe me for that car I sent to LaGuardia, by the way. Where's Wilson?"

Any tension Beatrice might have imagined existed between the two men was confirmed when she saw Steve's jaw visibly clench. "How do you know about Sam?" he asked.

The gesture, she was sure, wasn't lost on Tony, who looked even more delighted, as if it was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. "Let's just say a little bird told me. And no, it wasn't Barton. Or Romanoff, though the metaphor doesn't work quite as well for her." Before Steve could retort, he turned to Beatrice. Even though he was grinning, she had the sense she was being sized up. "And you must be the woman of the hour. Quick, give me your first impression of modern times."

She blinked. "Um—fast."

Tony looked disappointed as he began to walk over to the elevators, seemingly expecting Beatrice and Steve to follow him. "I was hoping for something more like 'scandalous' or 'depraved'."

"Well, I did just get here," she said dryly.

"Fair point," he amended. Unlike Steve, he didn't think with careful deliberation before he spoke—he answered right away, as if his mind was working faster than his body could keep up with. "I know exactly where to start—"

" _Tony,"_  Steve said with a long-suffering air.

The dark-haired man shrugged as they came to a halt in front of the elevators. "Don't worry, I'll start her off tame and gradually work my way up."

The doors slid aside even before he pressed the button, and several harried-looking businesspeople rushed out, nearly hitting Beatrice with their briefcases as she jumped back. The last man to exit did a double take when he saw Tony, quickly fixing his tie. "Mr. Stark, you have a meeting scheduled with President Ellis in an hour," he said formally.

"Cancel it," Tony replied, waving a dismissive hand. "I have other plans."

The man looked stricken. "But sir—"

"Look, get Agent Hill to postpone it. I think I'm free sometime next month."

"You just cancelled a meeting with the  _president?"_ Beatrice asked, dumbfounded, as they stepped past the equally confused businessman and into the elevator, whose walls were made of a polished metal through which Beatrice could see her reflection. There was no operator in sight—then again, there hadn't been an operator in Howard's building, either.

"A virtual meeting," Tony corrected as the doors slid shut and the elevator immediately shot upwards, causing Beatrice to grab the railing in surprise. "Oh, right, I guess you wouldn't know that means. Anyway, he just wants me to donate to the Sokovian relief fund. I don't do finance."

"But you're a millionaire!"

"Billionaire, actually." He turned to Steve. "I gotta say, Rogers, you've done a pretty poor job at getting her up-to-date."

"I guess we had more important things to talk about than your financial situation," Steve said through gritted teeth.

"You're absolutely right," Tony agreed. "We _do_  have a lot to talk about. Namely that little stunt you pulled in D.C., and why you're using my planes to chase after your frozen friends. Tell me, how many more of you are there? Five? Ten? I might have to expand the fleet."

Steve straightened up to his full height, which was significantly taller than Tony. Beatrice saw the billionaire register this and scowl; she wondered if Tony knew it was Steve's way of hiding his uneasiness. "You'll have to talk to Natasha about that," he replied coolly. "She was the one who arranged for our flight to Switzerland."

"Right, I forgot you and Romanoff are BFFs now." Tony glanced over at Beatrice for a moment, as if trying to gauge her reaction to the name. She hoped her expression remained smooth. "In answer to  _your_ question, I did some digging after Fury sent me the good nurse's blood sample and figured exactly who you were going to see. And guess what—her uncle's name was Romanov. How about that?"

"Tony, we wouldn't have involved you if—"

"If it wasn't for Fury spilling the beans. Yeah, I know." Tony sounded more serious than he had since he'd greeted them in the lobby. "Look, I would be surprised if Romanoff  _wasn't_ keeping secrets from me. And Hydra is your area of expertise, I get it. But don't you think this was a matter for the entire team?"

"You're right. I should have told everyone." Steve's admission seemed to take even Tony aback, but the momentary flicker of surprise on his face was gone as soon as it appeared. "But I thought I could handle it on my own, and I didn't want to overwhelm Beatrice. Things just got…complicated."

Tony took a step toward Steve. There was still a light smirk on his face, but his dark eyes were unreadable. "I know you trust me even less than Romanoff does, and that's really saying something. So tell me, Rogers, why are you here?"

"He said you would be able to help us find someone." Beatrice answered for Steve, hoping to ease some of the tension. She wasn't sure how many floors the tower had, but it felt like they'd been in the elevator for an hour.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Did he really? Who is this lucky individual?"

Ignoring Steve's cautionary glance at her, she replied, "Bucky Barnes."

" _Buc—_ hang on," he said immediately, pointing accusingly at Steve. "According to the Smithsonian exhibit—which I have not seen, by the way—he died in 1944. Which was seventy years ago, in case you're having trouble with the math, and it kinda sounds like you are."

"He's still alive," Steve sighed in resignation.

"Why am I not surprised?" Tony muttered. It wasn't an acceptance, but it wasn't a refusal either, and Beatrice allowed herself to relax slightly as the elevator came to a halt. A man with curly dark hair that was streaked through with gray stepped inside, giving them a small smile as he wiped smudged glasses on the sleeve of his white lab coat.

"I'm guessing you must be Beatrice Hartley," he said to her once he had put his glasses back on, and she nodded. "It's good to meet you—I'm Dr. Bruce Banner. Tony asked me to help analyze your blood."

Beatrice knew, logically, that her mind should immediately turn to the Hulk, the green monster Banner had transformed into after a failed injection of a replica super-soldier serum, but all she could concentrate on was his name. "You wouldn't happen to know if a grandmother of yours ever lived in Brooklyn, do you?" she blurted out.

The doctor frowned. "Actually, yes, I think she did. Why?"

Before Beatrice could explain, the elevator shot upward and again she had to grab onto the railing for support. Of course this didn't escape Tony's notice, who commented, "You know, you're remarkably uncoordinated for an Enhanced, Trixie."

" _Trixie?"_ she asked in disbelief, looking helplessly over at Steve, but the billionaire answered before Steve could speak.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "She's all yours, Spangles."

Steve's lips twitched in displeasure. "She's not—"

Tony rolled his eyes. "God, this is painful to watch. Don't tell me you disagree, Banner," he said, turning on the other man, who looked unhappy to be included in the conversation.

"Um, I just got here," Bruce said uncomfortably. "I guess I'm not late for the meeting after all."

"Meeting?" Beatrice gulped. Each Avenger had their own floor in the tower, Steve had explained to her, but it was rare for all of them to be present at the same time.

"Oh yeah, I guess I left out that part," Tony said dismissively. "I called the others up here just before you arrived."

"Was all of this really necessary, Tony?" Steve asked in a hard voice.

"How long were you planning on keeping her a secret?" the other man retorted. "As soon as you involved Stark Industries, you involved me. And seeing as how this is  _my_ building, I should get a say on what goes on here, wouldn't you agree?"

Steve clenched his jaw but said nothing. Beatrice glanced curiously at him, wondering if it had something to do with the letter he had been reading at the hotel, but at that moment the doors slid open yet again and this time both Tony and Bruce filed out. Steve gestured for her to follow them, and she obediently did so, down a long, carpeted hallway with bright electric lights hanging from the ceiling. Golden plaques adorned the dark-paneled wood of the doors, stating the names of the offices beyond. Most of them were blank, Beatrice noticed. Did no one work up here, then? Was this one of Tony's personal floors?

But all those thoughts were chased out of her mind when she heard voices drifting out of a nearby ajar door, and Tony led them into a boardroom that was reminiscent of the SSR's war room in London. A long wooden table was the centerpiece, with a large television mounted on the opposite wall. It was sparsely decorated with a tastefulness that almost surprised Beatrice; it didn't seem to look like anything she would imagine Tony (or Howard) ever designing—unless, of course, he  _hadn't_ been the designer.

There were already three people in the room; their conversation immediately quelled as soon as they saw Beatrice. She recognized Clint Barton and Natasha right away—any relief Beatrice might have felt at not being the only female in the room was overshadowed by the presence of Henry's daughter. Natasha was both taller and physically older than her, making Beatrice feel like  _she_ was the Romanova niece.

She met the other woman's green eyes for a brief second before quickly glancing away. Did Natasha know that she had just visited Henry?

"Have a seat, Beatrice," Bruce offered, pulling out a chair at the head of the table for her. His voice was kind, apparently sensing her trepidation, and she smiled gratefully at him. It was difficult to imagine how such a seemingly mild-mannered, introverted man could turn into the Hulk. Perhaps his file had been mistaken.

The remaining occupant, the only one she hadn't previously met, rose from his seat to shake her hand. Beatrice's mouth went dry as she stared at Thor—the Asgardian—the  _god_ —who was rugged and muscular, his golden hair loose and hanging down to his shoulders. His red cape and flowing robes were like nothing Beatrice had ever seen before. Steve was muscular, but comparing him to Thor was still like night and day. His grip was firm and sure as she hesitantly took his hand. Even with the serum, she was sure he could have crushed her wrist in an instant. "So you are the one who has the Norn Stone," he said; his voice was deep and rumbled with an accent she couldn't quite place. She didn't think she'd ever been so intimidated by anyone before. "I hope you are using it wisely."

She swallowed nervously. "I can give it back if you want."

The Asgardian chuckled and stepped away, his blue eyes sparkling in amusement. "No, of course not. My father gifted it to your ancestors many generations ago. It is yours now."

"Made it here okay, did you, Cap?" Clint asked, grinning at them. "What about that other nurse? The blonde one. Sharon something. Nat told me— _ow!"_ He glared accusingly over at Natasha, rubbing his ribs, but the redhead didn't appear to have moved an inch.

"Who's Sharon?" Beatrice asked, looking to Steve for an answer, but he didn't meet her eyes.

Tony clapped his hands together loudly, causing everyone to look over at him. "Now that we're all here, let's get this show on the road," he announced. "So, Bruce and I have had the— _privilege,_  let's go with that—of examining the blood sample Fury sent to me. Then we called Thor in for a consultation." Tony glanced over at Thor, who stepped forward.

"The Tesseract's power resides inside her," he explained to the room at large. "It is limited, of course; no mortal—nay, any living thing—can contain it fully, not without being destroyed. But if she is able to mold it to her will, she may prove to be a formidable opponent."

"What if I just want it out of me?" Beatrice asked, hoping she didn't sound as desperate as she felt.

"There may be ways to do so, but those may come at great personal cost," Thor replied, his friendly smile faltering for the briefest of seconds. "Knowing what I do of the Tesseract, it is likely wiser to seek to understand it before meddling. It is not harming you, at any rate."

"So show us what you can do, Trixie," Tony said. Some of the boredom had lifted from his expression.

Beatrice didn't want to try it, but there was no way she could protest. These were the Avengers, after all. Uncomfortably aware of six pairs of eyes on her, she stretched her hand out to the pitcher of water on the center of the table and tried to draw it toward her. But aside from a faint tingling in her fingers, it was exactly the same as it had been when she had tried to show Steve on the airplane. She must look ridiculous, reaching out to grasp an object as if she expected it to come flying toward her. She almost wished for the blue tinge to surround her fingers again, when she had been so terrified of it before. Feeling her face burn in embarrassment, she slumped back in her seat. She, Clint and Thor were the only ones sitting down—Natasha and Tony were both leaning against the wall, Bruce was hovering awkwardly near the door, and Steve stood next to her chair.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I swear I could move things before. Steve called it telekinesis."

"Maybe it only works if she's in danger," Natasha remarked, speaking for the first time. Beatrice glanced over at her, startled, but she was looking at Steve.

"That's a possibility," Bruce suggested; his eyebrows were drawn together in concentration as he surveyed her. "Fury told us what happened at the Hydra base. Did anything else unusual occur when you were there?"

Beatrice nodded. "One of the agents thought I'd been experimented on with some sort of scepter by a man called Strucker. Apparently he's the new head of Hydra. They were planning to bring me to him."

"The Tesseract and Loki's scepter are indeed worryingly similar," Thor remarked. "They must be linked somehow. I shall have to consult Dr. Selvig."

"Then we need to destroy whatever's left of Hydra and find that scepter," Steve said grimly, crossing his arms.

"Aye aye, Captain," Tony said with a mock salute, before ordering, "J.A.R.V.I.S., page Agent Hill."

"Of course, sir." The crisp, English voice that replied seemed to come from the walls themselves, but the others didn't seem fazed. Beatrice glanced warily over at Steve, who explained, "J.A.R.V.I.S. is Tony's personal A.I. Artificial intelligence. Like a twenty-first century version of a butler."

"I see," Beatrice said, still shaken. "So…does everyone have them now?"

"He's one of a kind," Tony said proudly. "Smarter than most butlers, too." He seemed about to launch into a more detailed explanation, but Steve, seemingly not wanting the conversation to derail, quickly began to bark out orders, turning to each member of the team as he addressed them.

"Nat, you and Barton look over the S.H.I.E.L.D. files and see if you can solve any Hydra-encoded messages. Banner, track the gamma radiation it might be giving off and monitor it for any unusual activity. And Thor, we'll need you to scout the possible locations of bases beforehand and see how many of us need to show up. We want to keep as low of a profile as possible."

This was Captain America, the Steve that Beatrice knew least, his authoritative voice and confident demeanor. She was aware she was looking at him with a slightly awed expression, but she couldn't help it. She hadn't gotten to see enough of him this way.

His exclusion of Tony didn't escape the billionaire's notice, who asked with more than a hint of irony, "What about me, Cap?"

Steve's face was grim but determined. "Beatrice and I need your help to find Bucky."

* * *

**Bucharest, Romania**

He was utterly alone.

He did not know why he was there, but his only option had been to run. He had climbed into an empty compartment on a freight train that was bound for Bucharest, having no desire to remain in Geneva when there were others who had undoubtedly been alerted to his presence. It was as if he had been programmed to return there, but he knew of no Hydra safe houses nearby, only that he'd held a faint glimmer of remembrance when he leapt off the train and stared at the city before him.

His mind circled back to the locations listed in the museum, laid out in his brain like a mission report, clear and concise: Brooklyn. Azzano. Kreischberg. London.

But not Bucharest.

And yet…the museum didn't mention Indiana, either, but he was certain he had been there, even if it was only at the insistence of the girl. Beatrice. No—there was another name, he was sure of it—he grasped for it, trying desperately to remember—

" _You used to call me Rosie. We were going to move to Indiana and live on a farm."_

He had known her, just as he had known the blond man. Steve. If they were searching for him—if they found him—

They couldn't. Not now.

He cast a wary glance at the windows covered with old, yellowed newspapers, at the equally ancient, rusted door. The only piece of furniture was a worn mattress in the corner. This apartment would suit him for now; he had chosen the location carefully. It was easy to enter and exit without being seen, and the landlord didn't ask questions. Hydra wouldn't find him here, but neither would  _they._

The journal was hidden inside his backpack, an empty notebook and a pen he had taken from the bank in Washington. During the flight to Europe and the train into Bucharest, he had covered its pages with notes listing everything he remembered, always keeping it in his possession in case he needed to escape at a moment's notice. To an outsider it would have seemed like irrational scribbling, some pages covered with detailed paragraphs and others with only one or two words, but it was the only piece he had of his life— _before._

Careful not to crush the pen with the strength of his metal arm, he flipped to the first blank page and wrote ROSIE in capital letters across the top. Her name appeared most often in the journal, along with Steve's, but the images connected with them were wisps of remembrance rather than the memories themselves.  _Dance hall, Coney Island, Indiana. Paintings, Flatbush, Rockaway Beach._

And then—

_Letter._

The single word appeared in his mind as if a candle had been lit. For the briefest glimpse of a second, he saw himself sitting at a desk, a thick coat wrapped around him, forcing his frozen fingers to write. Something about the notebook had brought this particular memory to the surface. Suddenly eager, he delved through his mind, scrabbling desperately to find more, but it was like wading through mud.

He was no closer to finding any more answers when he finally forced himself to accept that no more information was forthcoming, but he dutifully wrote down his discoveries anyway. Trying to hold on to the memory was like trying to catch water as it slipped between his fingers, growing dimmer with each passing moment. Still, he  _knew_ that was why he had found himself in Romania. He had once written a letter here. And it must have been important. But who had he addressed it to? And what had he said?

After trying and failing to recall the answer, he simply added a question mark to his notebook.

That night he slept for the first time since arriving in Bucharest, and between half-conscious awakenings he dreamed. The memories came to him in fragments, rarely as a whole, and equally difficult to piece together. Often it would just be one sense that was strongest—like the bright crimson of blood, or the weight of a sniper rifle in his hands. Calling in a hoarse, cracked voice for two people he was sure he would never see again.

And others still were pleasant—it was these ones that were most difficult to grasp. He caught the scent of vanilla—his mother?—his hand closing around someone's shoulder in reassurance—

And the girl. Beatrice.  _Rosie._  He knew instinctively what she felt like under his hands, the way she looked in a midnight blue dress, grinning shyly up at him. The way the bracelet— _his_  bracelet—looked on her wrist when it caught the light. The way his metal arm wrapped around her throat, tightening pressure until she gasped and went limp in his hold, her face rapidly turning blue as she was deprived of air. With one quick, expert motion, he snapped her neck and dropped her lifeless body to the ground. He stood still, staring blankly down at her, awaiting further orders.

"Excellent, Soldier," said Alexander Pierce, his glasses glinting as he stepped forward into the light. "Zola's method has worked…"

 _No,_ he screamed, fighting to wrestle his way from the man, but he was no longer in control of his own body.

His eyes snapped open to the empty apartment, but his mind was still roiling with the dream. He stumbled to his feet, head spinning, having to grip the wall to stay upright. His earlier recollection had cost him and dredged up even more memories, like stirring leaves through dirty water, and brought all of the sludge to the surface.

He staggered into the tiny bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left in his stomach and he was gasping for air. It wasn't a memory. A dream. She was still alive. He had seen her in Switzerland.

" _I was your fiancée,"_ she had said, and something had stirred inside him at her plaintive tone, her eyes wide and serious. And he had believed her. He still believed her, if his dreams were anything to go by.

The churning in his stomach had slowly turned from nausea into something far more dangerous and volatile, something that compelled him to rise to his feet and face the haggard, unshaven man he was met with in the mirror.

James Buchanan Barnes stared at his face for a long moment, disgust and hatred roiling up inside him, before he slammed his fist through the mirror, splintering his reflection into a thousand fractured pieces. Bits of glass rained down onto the sink and counter, falling to the floor like crystal raindrops. He stood staring down at the cracked image, and then roughly kicked the broken glass into the corner, breathing heavily with his fists clenched. The emotions were beginning to overwhelm him; he had no experience in dealing with them. He almost wished for the numbness that orders brought him. He was unused to emotions, unused to anything that made him human. And now he was terrifyingly human, completely directionless. He was without a purpose. Hydra had not created the perfect soldier. He was neither man nor weapon, but something in between, with all the weaknesses of both.

He didn't want more blood on his hands. He had spared the agents who followed him to the Smithsonian and the two who had been waiting for him at the airport in Washington. He had been in danger the second time, but he could have easily fled the first one. So why had he saved Captain America— _again?_

Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes for the briefest part of a moment, dragging his hand down his face wearily, and when he opened them again all he saw were the shattered fragments of his own reflection.


	45. XLV

Whenever Beatrice looked back on the six months she had spent living with Steve, the memories appeared not as a unified whole, a series of indistinguishable days blending into one another, but as a series of small, seemingly unimportant moments that perfectly illustrated the state of mind she was in at the time. She had been—not  _happy_ , exactly, because she still had to work ten hours a day, she'd been worried about Henry, and most of the time they'd been living hand-to-mouth—but while there had been occasional bursts of happiness, the word she would use to describe that period would be  _content._ The days, though long, had been predictable, and she'd always had companionship.

She remembered one unusually hot afternoon just weeks before George and Winifred's deaths. It had only been May, but the temperature was closer to that of July. The air inside the tenement had been stifling, and so she and Steve had retreated onto the fire escape, their legs dangling over the side of the railing. Bucky had been there too, of course, and Beatrice couldn't exactly recall what they'd talked about—the heat, probably, or more likely, they had spoken very little, too hot to move. But one particular moment stuck out in her mind: they'd just finished arguing about what the best flavor of Popsicles were. Bucky's favorite had been red, Beatrice remembered, while Steve's was blue and hers was purple. She could envision it so clearly: the oppressive heat clinging to her like a blanket, the hot metal of the stairs against her skin, the baking sun beating down upon the rows of laundry strung between windows, the distant shouts of children playing on the streets below—but most of all she remembered the boys,  _her_ boys.

Bucky had eventually fallen asleep, his head leaning back against the brick wall and his breathing deep and even. He'd spent all day at the Navy Yard, and had tossed aside his jacket as soon as he'd slumped down next to them. His shirt had been halfway unbuttoned, and Beatrice had tried very hard not to stare at his chest, at the defined muscles of his arms. He'd had a smudge of coal on his cheek, and she longed desperately to brush it off.

On her other side, Steve had been hard at work on one of the sketches for his part-time job at a comic book studio in the city. He usually kept quiet about his drawings and paintings, and when he did mention them it was mostly in relation to the extra money they brought, but Beatrice privately thought he enjoyed it much more than being a paperboy. Steve was self-conscious about his sketches—although Beatrice couldn't understand why—and even Bucky had once told her he'd only gotten to see a handful of them in all the years he'd been friends with Steve. His sketchbook was open now, though, giving her an unobstructed view of the drawing he was working on.

It was only half-finished, but Beatrice could tell it was of a girl sitting curled up on a sofa, intently reading a book. Her eyebrows were creased in concentration and she was leaning forward on the edge of her seat. She seemed utterly lost to the world around her—so intent that she didn't realize someone was drawing her picture. It certainly didn't look like anything out of a comic book.

"Is that me?" Beatrice asked in wonder before she could stop herself. She recognized the sofa, the cardigan the girl was wearing, the strands of hair escaping out of her pincurls. It was beyond strange to see herself through someone else's eyes, as if it wasn't  _Beatrice_  at all. Did she really scrunch up her face like that?

Steve had flushed bright red and quickly closed the book. "Yeah. I hope you don't mind—I've drawn lots of Bucky too—"

"Of course I don't mind!" she'd exclaimed, almost too hastily. "It's—it's wonderful. You're a very talented artist. I wish I could draw like that."

He'd turned even redder and mumbled something about inspiration. She and Steve had eventually given up the cousin charade, which amused Bucky to no end. Did Steve still have his sketchbook, she wondered? Did he even still  _draw?_ She imagined what little free time he had now was devoted to rest and catching up on what he had missed. If  _Steve_ still hadn't completely adjusted to the modern world, what hope did she have?

But that was getting off-topic, Beatrice told herself firmly, pulling her mind away from the hopeless speculation. That afternoon she had spent with Steve and Bucky—as embarrassed as Steve had been—still stood out in her mind as a time when she had been utterly content and relaxed, secure in her beliefs and her then-current situation. She could have happily stayed in that day forever, blissfully ignorant of what was to come.

She didn't think she would ever be that content again.

Today held the same atmosphere, both comforting and alienating in its familiarity, but Beatrice felt strangely removed from it. The sky was the same hazy blue, not a breath of wind stirring the still air. It was an unusually warm day for spring, and if Beatrice closed her eyes she could imagine she was in Brooklyn again, her legs stretched out in front of her, the weight of a book in her lap, the feeling of hard brick pressing against her back.

She sighed, dispelling the illusion before it could become too powerful, and opened her eyes to the vivid green of Central Park, already bright with spring. In the two weeks she'd been back in New York, she had escaped to the park nearly every day, seeking a refuge from Avengers Tower and the dizzying streets that surrounded it. Never had she thought she would be unable to recognize her home, the city she had been born in, had grown up in. Even the recognizable landmarks weren't the same. Whatever sense of familiarity she'd been hoping for had quickly faded away, like the wisps of smoke from a dying fire curling up into the air.

Beatrice smoothed out a crease in her too-tight jeans and crossed her legs, drumming her fingers idly on her knee. She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting here, on a bench adjacent to one of the park's baseball diamonds, staring off into space. At least the tourists on the bench next to hers hadn't even given her a second glance; they were poring over a map of the park and arguing loudly in Spanish. That was the best thing about New York, Beatrice decided. Nobody cared if you were alone or not. At least _that_  hadn't changed.

A young couple who looked to be around Beatrice's age spread a blanket in the shade of an elm tree in front of her; the girl rested her head in the boy's lap as he ran his fingers through her hair. Beatrice averted her eyes from them, over to the baseball game in progress on the field. Every so often the tranquility was disturbed by the crack of a ball being hit and a chorus of triumphant yells. The steady rumble of nearby traffic was a constant hum in the background, and the trees rustled above her. There was just so much  _noise._ When she'd first left New York, on board the  _Queen Mary,_ the silence had pressed on her ears until she'd found herself humming just to stave off the startling absence of noise. Now that she was back in the city, Beatrice was trying her hardest to become accustomed to it again. It was difficult, she reasoned, due to her enhanced hearing, and so even the scraping of a shoe against the sidewalk or a light cough distracted her.

But a distraction was a preferable alternative to what awaited her when she had nothing to concentrate on, no chatter aside from her own thoughts. Her mind was stuck on an endless loop of  _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky._

All she wanted was to see him again, to know he was all right and not back in Hydra's hands. If he didn't remember her—if he didn't care—she would deal with it somehow. The only thing that mattered was his safety.

But Beatrice knew she was lying to herself. She did care. She  _needed_  him to remember her, to hear him call her Rosie, to grin in that way that was reserved just for her. Her unconscious mind tried desperately to bring some fragmented form of reality to her, and she dreamt of him—when she managed to sleep—but the dreams were always ephemeral and vague. She nearly always woke with a cry, her pillow damp with tears. Sometimes she would turn on the lights and look at the pictures she had of him in Prospect Park. They were the only physical reminder of her fiancé she had left now, aside from the bracelet, and were taped above her bed. It was pathetic, she knew, but this was a hundred times—a  _thousand_  times—worse than the months they'd spent apart during the war.

Her rooms on Steve's floor of the tower were spacious but alienatingly  _modern,_ all bright white tones and sharp angles. Every piece of furniture, from the tabletops to the couches, was neutral and strangely soulless. The entire tower was designed in the same manner, as if no one lived there at all. It was the twenty-first century style, she knew, but she disliked the sterility of it. Beatrice tried not to spend any more time there than she had to, lest she run into one of the other Avengers or, worse, be addressed by J.A.R.V.I.S. She didn't think she would ever get used to a disembodied voice addressing her as if they were in the same room.

Still, Beatrice felt useless in her inability to aid in the search for Bucky. Every day that passed felt as if their chances decreased of ever finding him. She wanted to be actively pursuing him, searching for leads even if they turned out to be dead ends. She was finally beginning to understand Steve's hopeless frustration of wanting to join the army. She no longer cared how safe she was in New York; she wanted to help, no matter the cost.

Steve, she knew, was just as frustrated as her, though he did a much better job of concealing it. Beatrice could tell that, like her, he wanted to take action. Her guilt for distracting him from the mission still hadn't quite abated, despite his attempts to convince her otherwise. He had to remain in his position as leader, and the Avengers had bigger things to worry about than finding one man—though she had to admit that Stark  _was_ trying. The billionaire had tried to explain to her what he was doing, something about security cameras and heat signatures, but Beatrice hadn't understood a word. All she knew was that they were more preoccupied with the scepter and Strucker than anything else, trying to figure out the connection to Hydra.

And trying to figure out what the Tesseract had done to  _her._ She had sat in the laboratory, allowed them to draw her blood and take her hair and place objects in front of her to see if she could move them, using words like  _deoxyribonucleic acid_  and  _gamma radiation_  and  _cosmic energy,_  but their efforts remained fruitless. The only person more frustrated at the failures than Tony Stark was Beatrice herself.

"Am I the only Enhanced?" she'd asked tentatively during one of these visits, pulling her sleeve back down her arm as Tony had impatiently shaken the vial of her blood that had just been drawn, glaring at it as if it would somehow reveal its secrets to him.

"Technically, no," Bruce Banner had replied. "The definition as it stands would also fit Steve—"

"And you, Jolly Green Giant," Tony had interjected, to which Bruce had looked uncomfortable and mildly irritated.

"Yes, thank you, Tony. The point is that you're presumably the only one who has gained additional powers aside from the serum. If an agent thought you'd gotten telekinesis as a result of the scepter, then it's likely Hydra is conducting their own experiments with it."

"And how are they related? The Tesseract and the scepter?"

"We don't know. Thor is unable to return to Asgard to retrieve the Tesseract, so we don't have much to go on. They appear to share similar energy fields and are of extraterrestrial origin, but that's the extent of our knowledge." He'd shrugged in a helpless sort of manner; Beatrice felt sorry for him.

"I knew S.H.I.E.L.D. shouldn't have turned it over to Dr. List," Steve had muttered. He looked very out of place in a plain white shirt and beige sweatpants; his blond hair was dripping with sweat. He'd been training at the gym when Beatrice told him she was going to the laboratory; he always accompanied her on these visits, as if he instinctively knew that she wanted him there. Wordless communication had always been natural with Steve.

"Hydra would have gotten it some other way," a smooth voice said from the doorway. "There's no use stressing about it."

Beatrice had tried to mask her surprise, but she was sure Natasha noticed her startled intake of breath. She hadn't heard the assassin enter the laboratory, and she certainly hadn't been present when Beatrice herself had arrived. She felt unsettled around the red-haired woman, but it had very little to do with her cat-like stealth and everything to do with their relation.

Beatrice hadn't had a proper conversation with Natasha since her arrival at the tower—but she was certain the other woman was avoiding her. Or perhaps Beatrice was avoiding  _her._ She had to know by now that Beatrice knew the truth; if Steve hadn't told her they'd gone to Washington, Henry certainly had. Beatrice didn't know what the proper reaction was to meeting one's niece who was technically several years older, especially not when said niece was a legendary assassin, albeit reformed. Natasha hardly seemed like the friendly, approachable type—besides, even if she  _was_ , Beatrice didn't have the faintest clue as to what she should say. What was there to say, really? The idea of being "Aunt Beatrice" was laughable, and it was clear none of the other Avengers were any the wiser except for Steve and Clint. Yet again, Beatrice cursed her luck. The whole situation was a mess she had no idea how to deal with. She wasn't sure if she should address the matter or simply ignore it. Beatrice didn't even know how  _she_ felt about the entire situation, much less how Natasha felt. It would have been far more convenient, she thought, if the Tesseract had given her the ability to read minds instead.

"Mind if I join you?"

Beatrice glanced up, startled out of her thoughts again, to see Steve approaching her, an almost hesitant smile on his face. He was dressed casually, in a navy blue jacket and corduroy trousers. He looked more at ease in modern clothes than Beatrice likely ever would.

"Steve!" she exclaimed, hastening to make room for him on the bench. People continued to pass by, oblivious to his presence. "I—I didn't notice you. What are you doing here?"

The edges of his smile disappeared at her words, and he took a careful seat next to her, his eyes crinkling at the corners and betraying the solemnity—a hint of worry?—beneath. "You don't spend much time at the tower," he admitted. "Actually, I haven't seen you all day. J.A.R.V.I.S. says you left around eight this morning."

Beatrice silently cursed the automation of Tony's, but she couldn't stop the guilt that washed over her at the concern in Steve's voice. She hadn't meant to worry him; he must think she was purposely avoiding him. Bucky was his best friend, after all. The boys had known each other since they were children, and their bond ran deeper than brothers. Beatrice hardly knew them— _either_ of them—in comparison. And by sneaking out of the tower to wander around feeling sorry for herself, she had isolated herself from the only person who could possibly understand her.

"I know, Steve. I'm sorry," Beatrice said, drawing her hand over her face. "I wasn't avoiding you on purpose. I just…I know you're busy with the Avengers and looking for Strucker. I didn't want you to feel obligated to take care of me. You've done too much already."

Steve didn't answer right away, and after a moment Beatrice glanced curiously up at him. He was staring out at the baseball field, but she could tell he wasn't seeing the game. "I didn't leave my apartment for a week after I woke up," he said nonchalantly, as if they were discussing the weather. "Pierce wanted to isolate me until S.H.I.E.L.D. deemed it safe. Lock me up until they were sure I wouldn't snap." He smirked, humorlessly, an expression that looked wrong on his face. "But Fury disagreed. He thought it would be best to expose me to the world right away, let me handle it in my own time."

"Fury wanted to lock  _me_ up," Beatrice interrupted.

"You were found in a Hydra laboratory," Steve pointed out. "They could have done anything to you." He paused. "Thank God they didn't."

 _But they did,_ Beatrice thought.  _And no one knows what it is._ She didn't know how to explain to Steve that she felt  _tainted_ somehow, as if an invisible but contagious disease lurked inside her veins, inside her blood. Zola could have done any number of things to her while she was in cryostasis.

But she didn't want to interrupt Steve's story again, and so waited for him to continue. He seemed as unable to gather his thoughts as she was, as if he had never voiced them aloud before.

"Then New York happened, and everyone had bigger things to worry about. After we won, Tony invited us all to live in the tower." Steve gave a tiny shrug. "Bruce was the only one who accepted."

"What about the others?"

"Thor went back to Asgard. Clint said he had a place somewhere else. And it's impossible to get Natasha to stay in the same country for longer than a month. I just wasn't ready for it, so I went back to the apartment S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me down on 42nd." He grinned again, ruefully, and met her gaze. "Took me a while before I was able to get back into the world. Peggy helped a lot. She was the one who convinced me to move to D.C. and work for S.H.I.E.L.D. I'd probably still be in that apartment if it wasn't for her. I figured you'd want someone to talk to, too."

"Steve…" Beatrice began, hesitantly, unsure what to say, unsure how to convey the depths of her gratitude. How many times had she thanked him in her life? More than she could possibly count, and yet it still didn't feel like enough. The two of them had always been on the same wavelength, but somehow knowing that Steve understood what she was going through made her feel even worse for sneaking out of the tower.

On impulse, she reached over and hugged him, feeling his surprised intake of breath before he reciprocated rather awkwardly. Some things, at least, would never change. "Thank you," Beatrice whispered into his shoulder, and felt his arms tighten around her in response.

When she drew back, her attention was caught by a fluffy gray squirrel running across the path, an enormous acorn in its mouth. It darted halfway up the elm tree and onto one of the branches where, balancing precariously, the acorn fell directly onto the couple still lying on the blanket.

The girl shrieked and shot up, frantically working to pull the acorn out of her hair, while her partner looked around, baffled, for the perpetrator, but the squirrel had already shot up the tree at the commotion and disappeared. Despite herself, Beatrice grinned at their reactions, and saw that even Steve was fighting a smile.

The somber mood instantly vanished, and with a much lighter heart she felt brave enough to ask, "So how did you know to look for me  _here?_ I guess J.A.R.V.I.S. told you that, too?"

Steve looked relieved to see her smile. "No, actually. Lucky guess. We once spent a morning with Henry here while your uncle was at a meeting, and later you tried to set me up with your friend at the movies but she already had a date."

"Angie," Beatrice recalled. "I remember that. It was Casablanca, right?"

Steve nodded. "I still haven't seen it," he confessed.

"Neither have I," she admitted. "Coincidentally, that was also the same day you decided you had a chance against that guy at the theater and tried to defend my honor after he knocked into me and spilled my popcorn. Or something like that."

"Hey, hey!" Steve protested, holding his hands up in surrender. "I couldn't just let him get away with that. There wasn't a scratch on me."

Beatrice rolled her eyes, half-laughing. "Only because  _I_ cleaned you up afterwards! Your nose was bleeding and you had a bunch of scratches. Bucky would have—"

But she stopped short, the laugh dying in her throat, which had instantly closed at the mention of his name. She couldn't stop the stricken expression that crossed her face before she unsuccessfully tried to hide it—but of course Steve noticed. His eyes grew troubled at her silence, and she saw the same pain mirrored on his face for a split second.

"Bea?"

The name surprised her so thoroughly that she glanced up at him, shocked. He immediately looked sheepish and almost regretful.  _"What_ did you call me?" she asked, stunned.

Steve glanced down, hunching over as if he was trying to physically make himself smaller. It was something she recognized from when she'd lived with him, but the gesture wasn't quite as effective now. "Sorry," he muttered. "I've been calling you that in my head for a while. It just—slipped out. Never was brave enough to call you that—before."

But Beatrice shook her head. "No, I—I like it. Bea," she repeated, enjoying the sound of it. "No one's ever called me that before. Besides, it's a lot nicer than Trixie."

Some of the tension left his shoulders, and a quick smile flashed across his features before he grew serious again. Clearing his throat, Steve added, "Bucky loved you, Beatrice. More than you know. That kind of thing can't be erased so easily," he told her gently. "He'll come back, I know he will."

Beatrice wished she had Steve's conviction. "But you could still find him faster than Stark or Sam could," she tried to argue. "I—I shouldn't have made it sound like you had to choose between helping me or searching for him."

He suddenly grew very serious, his eyes never wavering from hers. "It wasn't a choice, Beatrice. Look, you're the only other person in the world who knows Bucky as well as I do. And he'd want me to stay with you."

As much as Beatrice didn't want to admit it, she knew he was right. Going after Bucky wouldn't achieve anything, especially if he knew they were looking for him. And there  _were_ other matters that required Steve's attention, even if they didn't hold nearly the same level of personal importance. And the selfish reason—the one Beatrice didn't even want to admit to herself—was that she was secretly grateful to have Steve with her. She was well aware she would be dealing with the situation much less quietly if he hadn't joined her.

"Actually, that's kind of the reason why I'm here," Steve began haltingly, reaching into his pocket to retrieve what looked like a set of keys.

"You've found a lead?" Beatrice immediately asked, hardly daring to hope—but her heart sank again when Steve shook his head, twirling the keys around his fingers in what looked like an unconscious gesture.

"No, nothing like that. Yet. I wanted to show you something," he replied, standing up from the bench. Beatrice stared at him in confusion, unsure what to do.

"Show me what?"

But he just nodded his head in the direction he had come from. "You'll see."

* * *

"You have  _got_  to be kidding me."

Beatrice stared in astonishment at the shiny black motorcycle parked along the sidewalk, fresh paint gleaming in the sun. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or turn tail and run. It was huge and dark and looked very, very angry. "Steve, you're _insane."_

Steve grinned and patted the handlebars, regarding it with the sort of fond glance Bucky used to give his Ford. "A gift from Fury. Sometimes he's not so bad after all. Never had a passenger before, but I'm sure it'll do fine."

Beatrice was already shaking her head and backing away, preparing to disappear into the park again. "It's like you have a death wish."

"Come on, Beatrice," he tried to coax her, looking far more amused than he had any right to be. "It's perfectly safe, I promise."

"But a helmet—"

"Won't do us much good. Don't you trust me?" Now there was a smirk on his face and a hint of playfulness in his tone. Beatrice was suddenly thrown back to a snowy afternoon in 1942, climbing through the library window and searching through Brooklyn's archives.

"Of course I do," she stuttered. "But I can walk back to the tower, honest—"

"We're not going back to the tower," Steve interrupted, and swung himself onto the bike, shifting forward to make room for her. "How else are we supposed to get to Brooklyn?"


	46. XLVI

Whatever excuses Beatrice had been planning on using instantly vanished at Steve's words. "We're going to Brooklyn?" she repeated, the words sounding foreign to her ears. _"Now?"_

He nodded. "We'll be there in twenty minutes."

Beatrice had considered returning to Brooklyn by herself, to take the subway and pretend to be another anonymous tourist wandering the borough, but something had always stopped her—a fear she couldn't quite put into words. If Manhattan was so different from what she remembered, what would _Brooklyn_ be like? As long as she could say she didn't know, she could pretend that it hadn't changed at all, and she wouldn't have to sort through two sets of overlapping memories, the mingling of past and present.

But at the same time…she knew she couldn't avoid it forever, that she would have to return to Brooklyn sometime. And looking at Steve sitting on the motorcycle, his face as familiar and patient as ever, Beatrice hardly thought there would be a better time, a better _person,_ to accompany her. So with one final steadying breath, trying to clear the anxiety from her system, she stepped forward and climbed onto the motorcycle behind him.

Her feet weren't even close to touching the ground, and she felt horribly unstable as she wrapped her arms tightly around Steve's abdomen, so hard it would have probably crushed a normal person. His body was thankfully solid and steady against her, and she resisted the urge to close her eyes and press her face into his shoulder. _I will not be scared,_ she told herself firmly, a strategy which failed to work.

"Ready?" Steve asked. Beatrice gave a tiny nod before realizing he couldn't see her, but luckily he seemed to understand her all the same and the engine suddenly rumbled to life under them. She couldn't stop herself from tightening her grip on him, her arms locked around his waist as if she was dangling from a cliff. "What do I do?" she squeaked, glancing down at her feet resting on the pegs. The ground seemed unnaturally far away.

"Just hold on and lean into the turns!" Steve called back to her, which was hardly reassuring. Beatrice was beginning to wonder if she should close her eyes after all when he released the clutch and suddenly they were moving, pulling away from the curb and merging onto the road.

She'd never before fully realized just how _loud_ the traffic was—a never-ending line of cars and trucks whipped past them, a cacophony of horns and the squealing of brakes blurring into one deafening background noise. The motorcycle's constant growl underneath them, its power barely contained, gave her the impression that it was alive and Steve was merely channeling its strength.

They took the corner at a speed that made Beatrice breathless, though in reality it couldn't have been more than twenty miles an hour. Everything felt so much faster here, so much more dangerous. She felt exposed, gripping onto the sides of the bike with her knees as she leaned into the turn like Steve had told her, trying to find her center of gravity. She bit her lip hard so she wouldn't gasp as the world briefly tilted to the side before straightening again. The leafy trees of the park flashed by them, the crowds on the sidewalks a blur.

"Still doing all right?" Steve called as they expertly swerved past a truck that had abruptly slammed on its brakes; Beatrice had the sense he was showing off just a little.

"I—I think so," she shouted back, but her words were lost in the wind rushing past them, her hair whipping around her face.

Up ahead the light was green and the traffic had thinned out; Steve pulled back on the throttle and Beatrice braced herself as they gained speed, the motorcycle positively roaring under them. Her hands were clutching Steve's jacket so tightly she was dimly surprised they hadn't torn right through the material.

They were weaving through traffic now, swerving around taxis and buses and cars, and with every sharp turn, at the faint triumph she felt at having stayed on the bike, Beatrice felt herself growing more confident, focusing on her surroundings rather than clinging on to Steve for dear life. When the spire of the Chrysler Building came into view, rising high above them, she tapped excitedly on Steve's shoulder, momentarily forgetting that he saw it nearly every day now. He quickly glanced back at her, and she saw the bright flash of a grin on his face.

They passed Bryant Park, tourists milling about on its lawn, and then the elegant architecture of Grand Central Station, the gargoyles on the roof leering down at them. Avengers Tower was a shiny glass needle in the sky casting long shadows over the streets below. At some point Beatrice forgot about trying to keep her balance and became enthralled in the sights again, somehow more inviting from this new perspective.

There was something exhilarating about it, she realized, something giddy, a sensation of almost wanting to laugh aloud. She could see why Steve enjoyed this so much; enjoyed something with so much power, something that offered him freedom without being trapped in an automobile. It was also the riskiest choice, which made perfect sense. Bucky had often complained about Steve and his motorcycles in his letters during their time with the Howling Commandos, but Beatrice had assumed he was exaggerating until now that she was experiencing it firsthand.

They took the corner onto Fifth Avenue on a hairpin turn, and Beatrice was proud of herself for not gasping. The city was flashing by faster now: the gold-rimmed windows of the Empire State Building, still a breathtaking sight even with rival towers springing up everywhere; the Flatiron Building, still looking as out of place as it had done a century beforehand; and then the grand arch to Washington Square Park, where Beatrice vaguely remembered playing as a child when her father had business in the city. For as much as New York had changed, she had to admit that much of it had, in fact, stayed the same. It was a strangely comforting notion.

And then Steve expertly navigated through the gap between two sightseeing buses and they were suddenly released from the labyrinth of streets and buildings onto a freeway overlooking the glittering East River, boats cruising lazily along its surface. Silhouetted directly in front of them was the Brooklyn Bridge, and Beatrice felt tears spring to her eyes at its painfully familiar outline. She couldn't take her eyes off of it, not even to check if she could see the ocean beyond as she used to do, as if she was searching for minuscule ways it had changed.

Steve slowed down as they navigated onto the bridge, but Beatrice hardly noticed: she was too busy staring at the stone arches looming above them, at the thick ropes holding it together. The late-afternoon sun was shining directly into her eyes, but now she refused to close them so she wouldn't miss a thing. A police officer stuck in the gridlock glared at their lack of helmets and riding gear as they passed, but short of getting out of his car and running after them there was nothing he could do.

And before she knew it, they were in Brooklyn, and her heart was slamming against her chest, desperate to find something, anything, she could grasp on to. The buildings looked old enough, but she didn't recognize any of them. She wasn't familiar with this area, anyway, having only needed to skirt the edges when she was crossing into Brooklyn Heights. She had an idea of where Steve was taking her, anyway, and her suspicions were confirmed when he took the southwest avenue into Flatbush. The buildings quickly evened out, growing lower, rougher, until the distant skyline looked like a faintly shimmering mirage. And—was that a familiar street? Beatrice didn't dare to check—she was holding her breath without being fully aware of it—her grip slackened on Steve's jacket—

The tenement had been just one in a long row of crumbling, red-brick buildings with no unique features, just another faceless façade built to house more people than it could hold. But Beatrice's reaction to seeing Steve's apartment again was visceral. The balconies had gotten more than a few fresh coats of paint, the doors looked newer, and laundry was no longer strung across the windows, but it was, on the whole, largely untouched from what she had known.

She was home.

Steve cut the engine and turned back to look at her. His hair was windswept, and there was a strange light in his eyes. Adrenaline, Beatrice guessed. "Told you it was still here," he said, gently teasing. She just nodded; she didn't trust herself to speak. After a pause, he added, "Do you want to go inside? I'm sure the tenants wouldn't mind—"

But Beatrice quickly cut him off. "No," she whispered, not knowing how to properly explain it. "That would ruin it somehow. I...I want to imagine it still looks the same."

She knew her words made little sense, but there was understanding in Steve's eyes all the same. He had, after all, lived here much longer than her. His hand hovered over the ignition. "What about Bushwick? Don't you want to go home?"

"This is home," Beatrice said simply, and Steve's answering smile was worth all of it.

* * *

"You're the only one I trust on one of these things, Rogers."

Beatrice was only half-joking as she gratefully climbed off the motorcycle, taking Steve's offered hand.

"I'm flattered," he replied, with a lopsided grin. Her own fingers were tiny inside of his, her entire hand almost dwarfed. How different was Zola's serum from Erskine's, really? Why had Steve grown taller, Bucky more muscular, while she, Beatrice, stayed the same? At the very least, it could have changed her figure so she looked more like a woman, instead of a prepubescent boy. She had to admit the food at Avengers Tower had filled her out some, but was it too much to have wanted the serum to define her chest or hips?

By the time the momentary sense of self-consciousness had faded, Steve had let go of her hand and was striding forward again. He'd refused to tell her where they were heading next, though Beatrice had a fairly good idea.

"For old times' sake?" she questioned when the gilded gate of Green-Wood Cemetery came into view, trying to disguise the way her heart turned over under her ribs.

"Kind of," Steve admitted, glancing sheepishly back at her. "Henry asked me to show you something, and if you want it removed he can make arrangements—"

"Don't tell me someone bought a gravestone," Beatrice said with a laugh, but it was more breathless than she'd intended. Her suspicion was only confirmed when Steve didn't answer, only turning ahead and stuffing his hands inside his jacket. "Oh my God. _Steve._ You didn't—"

"It was Henry," Steve said quickly, almost defensively. "Natasha told me he did it when he first arrived in the country years ago while he was searching for his family."

The idea that she'd had a gravestone for decades without actually being dead was a morbid one to Beatrice, but even so she felt a rush of affection for her brother. Knowing how tight money had always been, she hoped he hadn't paid too much for it. But there was a more pressing topic at hand.

"You and Natasha seem very close," Beatrice began, glancing sideways at Steve. She expected him to look uncomfortable, and wasn't disappointed.

"That might not be the right word," Steve said, his tone too casual. "It's more of a…mutual respect. When S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, she was one of the only people I knew I could trust."

"What about that nurse Clint mentioned?" Beatrice asked, trying a different tactic. "Sharon?"

Steve winced, and she knew she had hit a nerve. "She's not a nurse."

"Then who is she?" Beatrice knew she was barreling ahead too quickly, but she couldn't stop herself from asking. The name had been circling around her mind since she'd heard it. How many other nurses had he befriended? She had always been protective of him, but it had only intensified since she had woken up. Steve was the only solid tie she had left to her old life, and knowing he had moved on would set her adrift again. But she wanted him to be happy. He _deserved_ to be happy.

Steve sighed, clearly uncomfortable. He ran a hand across his face and kept his eyes straight ahead. "She was an agent assigned by S.H.I.E.L.D. to keep an eye on me in D.C. I don't even know where she is now."

Beatrice waited until her traitorous relief had dissipated before confessing, "I just want to know what makes you happy now."

Steve slowed his pace and now looked her squarely in the eyes. "The happiest I've been since they woke me up is when I got the call from Natasha telling me that you were alive."

* * *

The plot that held the Hartleys' graves was surprisingly well-kept, considering its age and the other worn stones that surrounded it. Beatrice stepped off the path first, feeling Steve cautiously trailing behind her.

Her parents' headstones were, of course, the most weathered. Beatrice knelt down and brushed aside the dirt that covered them until John and Elena's names were visible again. Next she smoothed out the grass that had grown over the smaller rocks she'd added in memory of her stillborn siblings. Her father had probably been grateful Elena had so many failed pregnancies, Beatrice thought sourly. Less mouths to feed and more money to spend on his whiskey and cigarettes. She wished she had confronted him about it at the time. How much more bitter she felt now that the chance was gone forever.

But there was another, larger grave there now, nestled between the others. It was also visibly newer—the stone was more polished and the inscription was legible. But it was the small bouquet of red roses next to it that immediately drew her attention. She carefully plucked one and held it to her nose; it smelled fresh and sweet. Water was still collecting at the stems. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks old, if that.

She twisted around to glance questioningly at Steve, who shifted from foot to foot rather awkwardly. "They're placed there every year on your birthday," he said haltingly. "I arranged it after I woke up. Maybe now you'd prefer to have them delivered instead. Thought it was fitting, considering Bucky used to call you Rosie."

"They're beautiful, Steve," Beatrice told him, touched by his thoughtfulness. "Thank you." She slipped one into her pocket, smoothing the thorns out with her thumb. They didn't so much as graze her skin. Turning back to the stone, she traced the engraved letters with trembling fingers:

_Beatrice Rose Hartley_

_March 23, 1920_

"Well, at least there's no death date," she muttered with a dark laugh, turning her head again to look at Steve standing over her. "I'll have to tell Henry to give it another fifty years or so—"

Steve audibly winced, tensing. "Actually, Beatrice, it'll be more like a hundred and fifty."

She blinked. "What?"

"I—Tony was going to tell you, but I said it would make sense for me to do it instead." Steve uneasily rubbed the back of his neck. "The serum, well, you know it regenerates our cells and makes us heal faster. It also slows our aging—Tony estimates it doubles our lifespan if we aren't given another dosage. Once it's completely out of our blood in fifty, sixty years, we'll start aging normally again."

Beatrice's head was whirling. "Oh," she said faintly. "That's news to me."

Steve looked worried. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," she lied, standing up on suddenly shaking legs. Steve reached a hand out as if he wanted to steady her but thought better of it. "I just need a moment to get used to it."

"You can take more than a moment," he said quickly. "I shouldn't have sprung it on you like this. I'm sorry—"

"No. I just—Bucky, too?" Beatrice asked, and Steve nodded. Something like relief flooded through her. If this was true, then they had time. Time to find him. Time to figure out what the hell they were doing.

"Bea?" he questioned when she didn't immediately respond. Her heart jumped at the new nickname, and she forced herself to smile at him.

"I'll worry about it later," she said, waving her hand as dismissively as she could. "There was one more question I wanted to ask. The S.H.I.E.L.D. files Natasha gave me in Switzerland—they were real, right?"

* * *

The street was still quiet and suburban; leafy trees shaded the old brownstones from view, most of the houses looking identical to those Beatrice remembered. Aside from the cars, she could almost pretend it was 1943 again, but her heart hurt too much to dwell on it for longer than a moment.

"Rebecca still lives here, then?" Beatrice asked, climbing more gracefully off the motorcycle and hopping onto the sidewalk. The only other person in sight was a balding, gray-haired man glaring at them from his garden. Beatrice recognized the house as having once belonged to Donald Smith, the boy who had been discharged from the army after losing an arm at Tripoli. She wondered what had become of him.

"Yeah. As far as I know, she's never moved," Steve replied, holding open the front gate for Beatrice. "Says she wants to keep it in the family."

The front door was already ajar, but he pressed the bell anyway. There was a scuffle from inside, and Beatrice heard a dog barking before it opened fully and a middle-aged, smartly dressed man appeared on the step. He was quite handsome, she had to admit, with a head full of brown hair streaked through with gray and dark blue eyes that were the exact shade of Bucky's.

"Steve Rogers?" he asked at once, blinking in restrained surprise at Steve. Beatrice thought she saw Ernest in the shape of his mouth, the curve of his ear.

"Hello, Jamie," Steve greeted him, reaching out for a handshake. "Mind if we drop by?"

"Of course not," the man said, hastily stepping inside to let them in. "Mom would love to see you—she saw you on the news when, um—"

"In Washington?" Steve offered.

"Yeah." He looked intensely curious, as if he wanted to say more but didn't. His gaze turned to Beatrice for the first time. "I'm Jamie Proctor," he introduced himself, holding out a hand, and Beatrice felt a mild shock as she took it.

"Rebecca and Ernest's son," she realized. There had been a mention of a child in their files, but she hadn't realized he would be _here._ "I'm Beatrice Hartley."

Jamie's eyes went wide. "H— _Hartley?"_ he stammered. "Uncle Bucky's fiancée? But she was killed at the end of the war, and you're so... _young."_ He appeared to be lost for words, gazing helplessly at Beatrice. She felt a pang of sympathy for him; his awkward manner reminded her greatly of Ernest.

"It's a long story," she said gently.

Jamie's eyes flickered between her and Steve, and something in them hardened. "It has to do with Hydra, doesn't it?" he asked darkly. "I heard about what happened to S.H.I.E.L.D. And Mom was always convinced something more happened to Uncle Bucky. Come on, I'll take you to her."

The house had been renovated in the decades since Beatrice had seen it last; it was wider, airy, more open and less stifling. Beatrice found the mixture of the old and new strange but enticing; the current inhabitants had infused it with a different sort of light, giving the walls new life. A cocker spaniel trotted forward to greet them, tail wagging. The house held an air of unmistakable contentment.

"How is Rebecca?" Steve asked in a low voice. "I haven't seen her since I was posted to D.C."

Jamie shrugged. "She's doing as well as she can be, I guess. She just celebrated her ninetieth birthday. I am wondering if I should get a doctor to have a look at her, though. She doesn't want to leave the house, not even to go to the end of the street, and she keeps talking about Dad like he's still here."

Ernest had been killed in Vietnam, Beatrice remembered. Jamie must have been very young when he died.

"The twins and I moved in here two years ago after Cynthia passed. My wife," he clarified at her blank look. "She was killed during the Battle of New York. Trapped in an office building. No one on that floor survived."

"That's terrible," Beatrice said quietly. Next to her, Steve glanced down at the floor and she longed to tell him it wasn't his fault, that the Avengers couldn't possibly save everyone. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you. We're doing all right, but it's tough to take care of my mother and look after two teenagers at the same time." Jamie shrugged, and with a slightly sardonic grin added, "At least this is a prime piece of real estate."

"Who are you talking to, Dad?"

A young girl appeared at the top of the stairs; she couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen. Her dark hair was tied back in a long braid and her eyes were more green than blue. As soon as she saw Steve, her manner immediately changed; she stood up straighter and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh! Hi, Captain Rogers."

"He's stopped by to see Grandma," Jamie told her. "Where's your brother?"

The girl shrugged. "In his room, I guess." She bounded down the stairs two at a time, her braid flying out behind her. "I have soccer practice in half an hour. I'll be back before dinner. Love you, Dad!" she exclaimed, kissing her father's cheek, before giving Steve a shy smile. "Bye, Captain Rogers."

"Nice to see you again," Steve said politely as she darted out the front door and quickly disappeared out of sight.

"Please excuse the less-than-enthusiastic reception," Jamie said in a long-suffering tone. "That was Kimberly, my daughter. Scott should be around here somewhere."

Kimberly and Scott were Bucky's great-niece and nephew, then, Beatrice realized. Jamie was doing the best he could and clearly loved his children.

"Mom's room is just up here," Jamie told them, beginning up the stairs. "I've offered to convert the old parlor into a bedroom, but she won't have it." He shrugged helplessly.

When they reached the landing, Beatrice looked longingly at the door to what had once been Bucky's bedroom, and part of her was grateful it was closed. Jamie knocked on the door next to it and poked his head in. "Mom, are you awake?" he asked.

"I am now," a voice croaked from inside the room. Jamie smiled and stepped back to usher Beatrice and Steve inside. Beatrice was suddenly hit by a wave of trepidation and sadness when she saw Steve's face: Rebecca was significantly older than Henry, and it was evident that she spent most of her time in bed. If _she_ could barely move, what must Peggy, who was even older, be like?

The bedroom was dark and cool, with a fan slowly oscillating in the corner and blowing the curtains back. Under the window stood a small bedside table upon which sat a container of pills and a dimly-lit lamp. Most of the room was taken up by a bed with at least a dozen pillows pushed against the headboard.

Rebecca Proctor put the book she had been reading down on the table and looked up at them with a wicked grin on her face, adjusting the pair of large, dark glasses perched on her nose. Her hair was no longer the rich brown Beatrice remembered, but white and wispy. Her youthful beauty had given way to the wisdom of the aged, and her face was etched with deep lines. Her hands shook slightly as she reached out to them, but the enthusiasm in her eyes hadn't dulled one bit.

"Steve," she said happily as he bent down and allowed her to kiss him on the cheek. "I was wondering when you would visit again."

"I'm sorry I haven't made it over here sooner," Steve said sheepishly as he straightened up, but there was genuine fondness in his voice. "I've been...busy lately."

"Luckily, the news backs up your story," Rebecca said dryly as he moved aside, and her deep blue eyes landed on Beatrice.

"Rebecca, this is—"

"Beatrice Hartley," she finished. Rebecca didn't sound surprised in the least; rather, there was unmistakable triumph on her face. "I was wondering when I would meet my sister-in-law again. Come here."

Beatrice mutely stepped forward and leaned over to gently embrace Rebecca; she felt soft and fragile and smelled of lemon soap. When Beatrice drew back she could have sworn she saw tears glistening in the other woman's eyes. "You're still here," Rebecca said, with a beatific smile.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your wedding," was the first thing Beatrice blurted out.

The older woman laughed. "No harm done. I think Bucky missed you most of all." She squeezed Beatrice's hand, her grip surprisingly fierce. "Thank you for making him happy," she whispered.

A buzz emanated from Steve's pocket; his mobile phone, Beatrice realized after a moment of confusion. "I'm sorry, I have to take this," he apologized after glancing at the number. As he went back out into the hallway, she heard him say, "Sam, what is it?"

Turning back to Rebecca, Beatrice wasn't sure what to say to her; what explanation she _could_ give. Luckily, the other woman didn't seem too interested in an explanation. "You've missed a lot."

"I know," Beatrice said. "I wish I could have lived through it all."

"Oh, darling, you wouldn't have liked the seventies. Especially not in Brooklyn." Rebecca turned her wrist over, examining Beatrice's bracelet with her gnarled fingers. "I remember that bracelet," she mused. "Bucky used up a year's wages to buy it. I thought you'd want something fancier, like gold or diamonds, but he had his heart set on this one. I figured he was going to give it to you." She paused. "That's when I knew he was serious."

Beatrice was trying hard not to cry; she knew she was seconds away from breaking down and telling Rebecca everything. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I couldn't save him."

Rebecca shook her head slowly. "Oh, but you did. More than you know. He'll come back for you."

"What?"

Rebecca smiled genially, as if she hadn't expected Beatrice to understand. "You and Steve turned up, didn't you? I know Bucky's out there somewhere. When I got the telegram, I told them I wouldn't believe my brother was dead until I saw his body. And I still haven't."

Beatrice closed her eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape. "Becca—"

"Dad, the guy next door is staring over here again," a boy complained, sticking his head in the door, and the spell was broken. Raising her head, Beatrice noted the newcomer's resemblance to Kimberly and assumed this was Scott. "I can't even go outside without him watching me."

Jamie sighed and stood up, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry, Mom, I'll be right back," he said to Rebecca before telling Beatrice in a low voice, "Our new neighbor moved in a few weeks ago. Hasn't even introduced himself, but he always seems to be watching the place."

Beatrice reached over and curiously drew back the curtains, only to be met with the sight of the balding man who had been glaring at her and Steve earlier still standing on his front step and staring up at the house. His eyes met Beatrice's; he held her gaze firmly and didn't look away.

"Yeah, it's really strange," Jamie was saying from behind her. "The previous owner died of a heart attack and he just moved right in a day later. It wasn't even on the market or anything. Maybe he's a son—"

But Beatrice wasn't listening to him; she continued to watch the man in question, an uneasiness worming its way into her gut. She could see his face as clearly as if he was standing right in front of her, and there was an eerie blankness to it, devoid of all emotion. She had the sudden urge to step back and close the curtains as tightly as possible, to instruct Jamie to call the police. He hadn't moved an inch in the seconds their eyes had locked, and she felt as if she was battling in a silent competition, him daring her to look away first.

And then his hand twitched toward his pocket, so casually that she would probably have overlooked it if she hadn't been studying him so intently. But it was enough for Beatrice, trained from years on the front lines, to see his fingers curling around a handle and then the brief but unmistakable flash of a gun.

 _"Get down!"_ she shrieked as she dove onto the floor, covering the back of her head with her hands as the window shattered inward, showering glass down onto her and Jamie. She heard Scott yell and Rebecca gasp as she impatiently brushed the shards away, pulling them out of her hair—

Steve immediately burst into the room, his eyes wild. He didn't even need to ask what had happened before he was sprinting to the window. Beatrice felt a dizzying moment of panic; he didn't have his shield—

A small, cylindrical object soared through the open window and clattered onto the floor next to his feet. Beatrice reacted quicker than she thought she was capable of; she shouted _"Steve,_ _move!"_ and without thinking, without understanding, she instinctively reached out her arm and swung it to the side as hard as she could.

The grenade went flying across the room and back out the window; it exploded with a deafening bang seconds later. Steve whirled around to stare at Beatrice, her arm outstretched, her fingertips glowing blue, and there was a mixture of shock and awe on his face. But then the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and he was running toward the window again, his shoes crunching on the glass. There wasn't even a moment of hesitation before he burst through it, leaving the curtains fluttering behind him.

Beatrice was following him before she knew it; she yelled to Jamie, "Stay with them!" before she dove headfirst out of the window after Steve, a brief instant of grass and sky whirling crazily around her before she landed on the ground, the impact less forceful than she would have imagined, just in time to see him haul the man up by his shoulders and slam him against the side of the house.

"You think I'm scared of you?" he asked, breathlessly, though his feet were dangling above the ground. "You think I'm worried about being killed by _Captain America?"_

"I don't want to kill anyone," Steve snarled. "Doesn't mean I won't."

"Pierce was right about you," he panted, now clearly struggling for air. "You don't give up."

"So you're Hydra, then." Beatrice spoke up, walking slowly toward the two men. An unsettling, deep anger was burning in her chest. "You know what I've always wondered? Why there are no female Hydra agents. Coincidence, maybe, or just common sense."

The agent leered at her, clearly anticipating a new target. "Oh, but there are. The asset had a pretty little doctor once. Looked just like you. He was obedient around her more than any of the others. Pierce never could figure out why. Until one day she was there when he came out of cryo, just before he was wiped. You know what he did to her?" He paused, drawing out his words. "He can be unstable, but I've never seen anything like that. She's lucky we were there to save her. I reckon she still has the scars on her face."

Beatrice went rigid, his words hitting her like physical blows. She struggled to answer, but no sound came out. Seeing her reaction, Steve's grip tightened on his foe. His blue eyes, normally so warm and inviting, were now as cold and dark as the ocean at night. "What are you doing here?" he asked softly, dangerously.

"Waiting for the asset to show up. Thought that he might visit his sister once his memories started to return. I guess they haven't yet." He shrugged as best as he could, clearly unfazed.

 _"When_ his memories return?" Beatrice echoed, finally finding her voice again.

"We couldn't destroy his brain, unfortunately, or else he'd be useless. We only jumbled up his mind so he can't make sense of it." The agent smirked, looking her up and down over Steve's shoulder. "Why? Miss him, do you? You look pretty forgettable to me."

"Shut up," Steve snapped, but it was Beatrice who'd had enough. The rage burning in her chest had finally spilled over, and she could feel a strange sense coursing through her veins, a heady, electrifying pulse that made her faintly dizzy. She needed to release it somehow. Again, instinctively, she raised her hand toward him and gritted her teeth as she felt an invisible resistance against her arm, as if something was trying to push it back. It was as if she had come up against a wall and was straining to bend it using only her mind. The blue light gradually spread from her fingers and down into her wrist, bringing with it a pulsing warmth. She growled under her breath, concentrating—when she wavered so did the light, flickering until she was sure it would be extinguished completely—Steve was looking at her again, that wonderstruck expression on his face, this time mixed with something that was very close to fear.

With one last, final push, Beatrice finally managed to destroy the invisible force and the agent's head slammed hard against the brick wall. Two tendrils of ivy had snaked up from the garden and wrapped themselves around his ankles, pinning him to the wall. She gasped, bracing her hands on her knees; black and white spots pulsed in front of her eyes and her breathing was ragged.

The agent had finally cracked; he was staring at Beatrice with unadulterated horror. "The twins," he gasped. "But you—you can't be one of them. _How—?"_

"What twins?" Steve interrupted. There was no need for him to tighten his grip when the other man was unable to move, but he did so anyway, his elbow digging into his chest.

"Strucker's experiments?" the Hydra agent coughed, as a thin stream of blood trickled down his nose. "You mean you don't know?"

With the last vestiges of her remaining strength, Beatrice managed to ask, "Where is he?"

"Let me go and I'll tell you."

Steve shook his head. "Try again."

Beatrice reached her hand toward him again, trying desperately to summon up the power she had felt, but there was no need to this time: the agent's eyes went wide and he immediately blurted out, "Novi Grad! The base is in Novi Grad—get that witch away from me—"

Before Steve could threaten him again, a bullet whistled through the air and hit him directly in the chest; he slumped to the ground, blood spilling from his white shirt. Steve let go at once, and both he and Beatrice stared in shock at Jamie running toward them, a gun in his hand. There was cold satisfaction on his face as he stared down at the agent's body. Beatrice took a step back, rattled. "Where did you learn how to shoot?" Steve asked.

Jamie shrugged. "Joined the army when I was eighteen. Wanted to be like Dad." He nodded at the body. "What did he say?"

Beatrice could take it no longer, and slumped down onto the ground, exhausted beyond belief and her breathing uneven. Her muscles ached as fiercely as if she had just run a marathon. She felt drained both physically and mentally, as if she had used up her entire body's energy reserve. She stared blankly at Steve, who had knelt down beside her in concern.

"Strucker—Strucker is in Sokovia."


	47. XLVII

"Tony, this suit is a bit more—"

"High-tech? Of course it is. I designed it."

"—I was going to say  _contemporary,_ but high-tech works, too."

Beatrice turned away from the windows to watch Steve and Tony emerge from the elevator and head toward her, bantering all the way. Their conversation was too light, too  _civil,_ to be entirely genuine.

"I hope you've noticed the electromagnetic wrist panels," Tony was saying, nodding at Steve's shield, which now appeared attached to his uniform itself rather than his arm looping through the straps.

"How could I not?" Steve asked dryly. He glanced up for the first time and she saw his eyes light up when he spotted her. Beatrice's own face relaxed into an automatic smile as he approached.

"Beatrice!" he exclaimed in apparent delight, placing his helmet on the nearest table. His hair looked slightly damp, as if he had just come out of the shower. "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. "I wanted to see you off."  _I want to go with you. I want to be useful for a change._

Steve's expression grew serious as he regarded her, as if he knew what she was thinking. "We won't be gone for long. Maybe a day or two at the most. Tony's already investigated the base. All we have to do is find Strucker, get the scepter, and get out."

"You make it sound so  _easy,"_  Tony, who was standing behind Steve, cheerfully interjected. He clapped a hand on the blond man's shoulder as he passed them. "I was up all night working, Rogers. Well, I'm up most nights, admittedly, but the point still stands." Turning his attention to Beatrice, he pushed down the top of his sunglasses so he could examine her. "Good work, Trixie. I knew your witchy powers would come in handy someday. Wish I'd been there to witness it, actually."

Seeing Beatrice tense, Steve thankfully saved her from replying and stepped forward instead. "Speaking of that, have you checked on Rebecca Proctor and her family yet?" he asked. "It won't be long before Hydra hears about what happened."

"Yes, the Proctors are being monitored. I've got eyes on them. They'll be fine," Tony said painstakingly, as if he was speaking to a child. Beatrice had the sense this wasn't the first time they'd spoken of it. "Don't get your tights in a twist, Cap."

Now Steve's jaw tightened. Beatrice glanced over at him, planning to speak—but then she noticed,  _really_  noticed, his outfit for the first time, and her breath caught in her throat. She had seen it before. It was the same suit he wore in her vision from the Norn Stone, the one where he and Bucky had been side-by-side in some sort of underground bunker, prepared to attack whomever had been standing next to Beatrice.

"Do you like it?" Steve asked self-consciously, staring down at himself and misinterpreting her silence.

"Yes!" Beatrice exclaimed, too quickly. Truthfully, she vastly preferred it to his USO uniform, but part of her didn't want to give Tony the satisfaction. Deliberately not acknowledging the billionaire's raised eyebrow, she blurted out, "It, um, it suits you," before visibly wincing at the unintended pun.

This appeared to be the final straw for Tony; he threw his hands up in exasperation and walked away, muttering, "It's too early for this. I need coffee."

"It's three o'clock," Beatrice said to his retreating back.

"There is a fresh pot aboard the quinjet, sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed in helpfully, his voice seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Beatrice had once spent an entire hour searching for speakers in her room and had failed miserably.

"J.A.R.V.I.S., remind me to install you with a sarcasm detector as soon as I get back."

"Of course, Mr. Stark."

Beatrice turned back to Steve, who looked, bizarrely, as if he was trying not to laugh. "What?" she asked, somewhat defensively.

He shook his head, but couldn't hide a grin. "Nothing. It's just—he's more like Howard than he thinks."

"I know," Beatrice said darkly, raising her eyebrows in the direction of Tony, who was now standing with Thor and Bruce Banner at the entrance to the tower's landing pad, where the quinjet was being prepared for the Avengers' trip to Sokovia. "But something tells me he wouldn't take it as a compliment."

"I probably wouldn't either," Steve admitted. He met her eyes, though there was something almost hesitant in his gaze now. "Beatrice, I didn't get the chance to tell you yesterday—it was Sam who called when we were at Rebecca's. He thought he found a lead on Bucky, but it was a dead end."

Whatever spark of hope had been kindled in Beatrice's chest suddenly deflated, as if someone had let the air out of a balloon. She had known it wouldn't be that simple, had expected it, even—so why did she feel so disappointed? "That's all right," she said in a small voice. "At least he's trying."

"We'll find him," Steve said, surprisingly fiercely. "Buck wouldn't hide forever."

 _But what if he's_ not _Bucky anymore?_ Beatrice thought, and despised herself for even acknowledging the possibility.

On the opposite side of the hangar, the elevator doors slid open again and this time Clint Barton and Natasha appeared; like Steve, they were already dressed in their uniforms. A quiver filled with arrows was strung across Clint's back, while Natasha wore a skin-tight black suit with a handgun strapped to her thigh. Her hair, Beatrice noticed, was no longer sleek and straight; now it was a shoulder-length mess of curls that she privately felt would benefit from victory rolls.

"Barton, Romanoff, glad to see you could finally make it," Tony called to them. "What caused the holdup? A candlelit meal in the gym? Sparring sessions in the bedroom?"

The answering look Natasha gave him was enough to quell even Tony Stark. Beatrice couldn't help but be impressed. While Clint joined the others, greeting Tony with a remarkably creative insult, Natasha made her way to where Beatrice and Steve were standing. She carried a slim manila envelope in her gloved fingers.

"This is for you," she said when she reached Beatrice, holding out the envelope. "Special delivery from Washington." There was no trace of malevolence or trickery in her eyes, and Steve didn't object, so Beatrice accepted it cautiously.

The contents were heavier than she had expected—it felt like a stack of papers, along with several misshapen objects Beatrice couldn't begin to guess the nature of. "Thank you?" she said, the phrase turning into a hesitant question.

One corner of Natasha's mouth turned up in a smirk. "Don't thank me until you've read them," she remarked dryly, and turned to Steve. "Ready?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I was just going to say goodbye to Beatrice."

Seemingly taking that as a dismissal, Natasha nodded and brushed past them, though Beatrice was sure the redheaded woman's eyes still lingered on her.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Steve asked her immediately, his mouth downturned in worry. "I'm sorry we have to leave on such short notice. Usually there's more time to prepare—"

"Steve, I'll be fine," Beatrice tried to convince him, but they both knew she was lying. "Like you said, Avengers Tower is the safest place I can be right now."

" _Safe_  is a relative term," Steve replied, but some of the guilt had lifted from his eyes. "Have you met Happy Hogan?"

"I'll have you know Happy has been promoted to head of security of Stark Industries and saved my life on many separate occasions," Tony called over to them. "Unfortunately, he's in Malibu right now."

Steve lowered his voice so the others couldn't hear as he reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out a slim black rectangle, holding it the palm of his hand like an offering. "It's a cell phone," he explained at Beatrice's blank look. "In case you need to contact me. Everyone's numbers are already in there—mine, Sam's, Natasha's, Tony's. Thor is the only one who doesn't have a phone, but I asked Dr. Foster for hers since she'll be able to reach him easier than any of us."

Beatrice gingerly turned it over and examined it—it felt smooth and glossy in her hand, and she worried she would drop it. Pressing a button on the top corner lit up the screen, which displayed the time and date in glowing numbers. "How do I use it?" she asked dubiously, swiping her finger over the screen, which immediately responded to her touch.

"Just tap the phone icon and enter the number," Steve replied, and added with a crooked grin, "That's about all I can teach you. Everything else depends on the type of device you have."

"What? Actually, never mind. I don't think I want to know." Beatrice glanced over at the rest of the Avengers, who were starting to board the quinjet. "You should probably go before they leave without you."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. They stared awkwardly at each other for another moment before Beatrice reached up to embrace him. She had hugged him a lot in the past weeks, she knew, but at least he didn't seem to mind. Steve returned the gesture, his hands briefly hovering over her waist as if he didn't know where to put them, and she felt him take a deep breath before he pulled back. "Are you sure you'll be all right, Beatrice?" he asked. His worry was so apparent she almost laughed.

"I'm not going to be captured by Hydra.  _Again,"_  she joked, before slyly adding, "Besides, I'm not the one wearing the American flag."

Steve's eyes widened, and he began to splutter out a reply before Beatrice gently pushed him in the direction of the quinjet.  _"Go."_

He gave her a salute, grinning, before finally turning around and jogging over to the landing pad. Beatrice waved at his retreating back, though it was impossible to tell whether anyone else was looking at her or not.

She wondered if this was what it had been like for Steve and Bucky watching her leave for Europe, only a thousand times worse.  _They're the Avengers,_ she told herself firmly as the quinjet's ramp closed behind Steve.  _They know what they're doing._

* * *

"Hey, are you okay?"

Beatrice glanced up, startled, at the unfamiliar voice. She'd been so intent on examining the contents of the envelope Natasha had given her that she hadn't noticed anyone approaching. "I'm fine," she said, casting a look over the glass table in front of her, on which were scattered a stack of yellowed letters and her nursing medals. "Thanks."

The girl standing in front of her looked young, certainly much younger than Pepper Potts and Maria Hill—both of whom, Beatrice noted, were both seated across the so-called "party deck", at the bar, deep in conversation. This girl reminded her, inexplicably, of a young Rebecca, with wavy brown hair and wide blue eyes. A red wool scarf was wrapped around her neck despite it being the middle of spring. She gestured to the array of couches around the table. "You kinda looked like you were about to cry. Mind if I sit here?"

Beatrice shook her head, quickly moving to gather up the scattered letters and nearly knocking her new phone off the table in the process. "Go ahead."

"Thanks," the girl said brightly, taking a seat on the couch across from Beatrice; she had the feeling she wouldn't have taken no for an answer. "I'm Darcy Lewis. Jane's assistant."

"Jane? Oh—Dr. Foster," Beatrice realized. "Thor's…friend."

Darcy snorted ungracefully. "Are you new? There's no way you would look at the two of them and think they're  _friends_. It would be gross if it wasn't so cute."

As strange as Beatrice thought the idea of a literal god falling in love with a  _scientist_  of all things was, she knew better than to question this new world by now. "Is Dr. Foster here now, then?" she asked.

Darcy nodded. "She's been using one of the offices for the past few days—for her  _experiments_ , she said, but that's the lamest excuse ever. Still, I don't blame her. You'd never be able to pull me away from that blond beefcake if it was me. Anyway, we're going to Sweden tomorrow. She's rumored to be a candidate for this year's Nobel Prize."

Beatrice blinked. "I didn't know there was anyone else in the tower."

"Oh, there's always people around," Darcy replied, propping her feet up on the table. "Not that I'm here very often, but I'm sure there are. New York never sleeps, and neither does Stark Tower. Or something."

"I thought it was Avengers Tower now."

Darcy waved a dismissive hand. "Whatever. Anyway, who are  _you?"_

Her blunt, straightforward manner made Beatrice want to laugh. She may look like Rebecca, but she sure acted like Angie. "Beatrice Hartley," she introduced herself.

Realization dawned on Darcy's face, and she leaned forward, looking intrigued. "You're the nurse!" she exclaimed. "In World War Two? Thor was telling Jane about you. Well, he said  _healer,_  but I'm guessing that's Asgardian lingo for nurse. He said you've been frozen since 1945. What was it like? To be frozen, I mean?"

Beatrice scrambled for something to say, but ended up lamely answering, "It was, um, cold."

Darcy rolled her eyes, but didn't press the topic to Beatrice's relief. "Yeah, that's what Steve said, too. And that he was unconscious for most of it so he doesn't remember anything." She paused, frowning. "Where  _is_ he, anyway? Thor told us they had to leave quickly. Something to do with Hydra."

Beatrice nodded. "There's a base in Sokovia they need to investigate—apparently it's one of Hydra's last strongholds." She moved her gaze to the glass window that covered the expanse of the tower's entire south wall, where the city's skyscrapers blazed with light against the inky black sky. "They should be there by now."

She stared thoughtfully into space for another moment, unable to keep herself from wondering what Steve was doing now and if the team had gotten any more leads on Strucker, until the sound of crinkling paper distracted her. Glancing over at Darcy, she saw that the other girl had unwrapped what looked like a hamburger and was chewing happily.

"What? I'm starving. Want some?" Darcy asked through a mouthful of hamburger, waving it at Beatrice.

She shook her head, though the smell was admittedly inviting. "No, thanks. I've already had supper."

It was true—upon Beatrice's first meeting with Pepper Potts, the strawberry-haired woman had brought her and Agent Hill Chinese food from a nearby restaurant. Beatrice had never eaten Chinese food before, but found she enjoyed it very much. The two women did their best to make her feel welcome; even Agent Hill, whose outward no-nonsense exterior belied a wicked sense of humor. Instead of asking her about the past or her time with Hydra, Pepper had inquired about her opinions of modern times and offered to make her time in the tower as comfortable as possible. Beatrice already liked her very much and was undeniably curious to see her and Tony together, both of whom seemed like polar opposites.

Visibly more guarded than her companion, Maria Hill's questions were more pointed and direct, trying to coax Beatrice for as much information as possible, knowing how to steer the conversation so that she gave subtle but revealing answers. After having a glass of wine, however, the agent had slowly begun to loosen up, eventually regaling Beatrice and Pepper with tales about Steve and Fury during the time she'd worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., prompting some of the most genuine laughter Beatrice had had in weeks.

After dinner, Pepper and Maria had begun to talk business, and not understanding half of the words Beatrice had ultimately retreated to the nearby couches to examine Natasha's envelope. It was too late to venture outside, yet too early to retire for the night. And the view of the sunset over Manhattan from the penthouse of Avengers Tower  _was_ breathtaking.

Darcy swore loudly, and Beatrice had just enough time to look over and see the hamburger slip from between her fingers—Bucky's last letter on the table below it—

And then, miraculously, the food  _stopped_ its descent, hovering in midair just inches from the table, while the letter went flying across it, stopping neatly at the edge and safely out of range of the burger.

Darcy stared at Beatrice, open-mouthed, and Beatrice winced, expecting her expression to morph into one of accusation or even fear, to call for the others—but instead she reached out to pluck the hamburger from midair, examining it in shock. "Nobody told me you could do  _that!"_ she exclaimed in obvious awe. "That is so cool!"

"Cool?" Beatrice echoed in complete bewilderment.

"Yeah. Who wouldn't think so? It would be so useful—" Darcy paused midsentence to regard Beatrice with an incredulous look. "Hang on. You don't know what  _cool_ means?"

"Well—"

" _Darcy!"_

Beatrice's feeble denial was thankfully interrupted by the arrival of another woman, this one with dark brown hair and an unhappy expression. "I was looking for you everywhere," she said in exasperation, coming to a halt and crossing her arms over her chest. "I finished my work half an hour ago."

Darcy shrugged and took another bite of the hamburger. "Well, I was bored, so I came up here," she said nonchalantly. "Why didn't you ask J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"He didn't answer me," the newcomer, whom Beatrice assumed was Jane Foster, replied smoothly. "I figured it would be faster to find you myself."

Darcy raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "Didn't answer you?  _J.A.R.V.I.S.?"_

"What about J.A.R.V.I.S.?" Pepper asked in concern, turning around to face the others. Agent Hill, too, appeared to be listening to the conversation intently.

"He's not responding," Jane said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I tried asking him where Darcy was and didn't receive a reply."

"J.A.R.V.I.S.?" Pepper asked, placing her drink down on the bar and standing up. "J.A.R.V.I.S., what happened?"

There was no answer. Beatrice had never before thought the  _absence_ of the A.I. could be unnerving.

Pepper's pretty face turned distraught as she made her way over to the exit, Maria Hill trailing her. "Tony didn't mention anything about this," she mused.

"Maybe he's working on him remotely?" Hill suggested.

But Pepper shook her head, frowning, and the first tendrils of foreboding began to creep down Beatrice's spine. "No—he would have notified me beforehand. If we can't talk to him, then Tony can't, either. Maybe he was disabled somehow. I'm going to see if I can contact Tony." With that, Pepper hurried away, her heels clicking rapidly on the marble floor. Hill was quick to accompany her, and Jane jerked her head to Darcy in an indication they should join the other women. Her burger seemingly forgotten, Darcy untangled her legs from the sofa and got to her feet, glancing down at Beatrice. "Are you coming?" she asked.

Not wanting to be alone, Beatrice nodded at once and hurried to follow them.


	48. XLVIII

The window behind Pepper's desk faced north, looking out over the dark expanse of Central Park and the glittering web of traffic as it traversed the streets far below them. In the distance, the East River snaked its way past the city, a sharp dividing line between Queens and Manhattan. Beatrice knew this view: she had stood here before, in this very room, the first time she'd met Howard Stark. The pictures on the wall had been taken down, the wallpaper painted over, the grand mahogany desk replaced with a smaller one, the carpet replaced with marble, glass and gleaming steel like Stark Tower— _Avengers_  Tower—was now, but with a softer, distinctly more feminine touch. Beatrice wondered why Howard's old office had gone to Pepper instead of his son.

The five women were gathered around the desk, none of them speaking. Pepper with the phone to her ear, trying to reach Tony. Maria Hill in front of yet another screen someone had called a computer, reviewing security camera footage. Jane biting her lip and standing perfectly still. Darcy drumming her fingers on the edge of the desk, occasionally shooting worried glances at the others. And Beatrice herself standing in front of the window, the glare so bright that she could see her own reflection easier than she could see outside. Even her freckles were pale, and she kept twisting Bucky's bracelet nervously around her wrist. She didn't even know  _why_ the others were so worried, but the tension in the office was palpable. J.A.R.V.I.S., she understood, held together the tower. If he wasn't answering, something had gone very wrong.

"I can't reach Tony," Pepper said in frustration, placing the phone back in its cradle. She sounded outwardly calm, but there were tight lines around the corners of her eyes.

"He's not answering?" Jane asked. She shot a pointed look at Darcy, who slowly lifted her hand from the desk.

"No—the call isn't connecting at all. It's as if the line was cut." Pepper sighed and glanced out the dark window, impatiently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Does anyone have their cell phone on them? We can try the others—"

"I left mine in the lounge," Beatrice said at once. "Steve gave it to me just before he left. I can try to contact him."

Pepper looked over at Hill, who gave a short nod and stood up. "It's worth a shot," the agent replied. "I'm not getting anything from these cameras—I'd have to examine hours of footage. It would take J.A.R.V.I.S. seconds to find any anomalies, but unfortunately we don't have that option. Without him the entire tower is unsecure." She inclined her head toward Jane and Darcy. "It's probably best for them to head to the airport now and catch an early flight to Stockholm."

But Pepper still looked unconvinced. "I can't just leave like this! Tony would—"

"Tony would want you to be safe," Hill said firmly. "You're leaving for a conference in Sydney tomorrow anyway. He'd be able to figure out the problem nearly as fast as J.A.R.V.I.S., all right? But for now it's best that the tower is evacuated until the breach is fixed, otherwise we're running around blind."

Pepper gave the phone a long look again, as if hoping for it to ring, but it stayed silent. With an audible groan, she threw her hands up in surrender. "Fine. I'll call for the driver to take us to JFK now. Please come with me, Dr. Foster, Miss Lewis."

"Gladly," Darcy remarked, and hurriedly followed Jane out of the office, pausing to give Beatrice a tiny wave on her way out. Beatrice returned it half-heartedly.

As soon as they were gone, Agent Hill beckoned to her and pulled out a silver pistol from her pocket. She kept it pointed at the floor, but Beatrice heard the sharp click of the safety being disengaged. "Why are you going with me?" she couldn't help but ask. "The lounge is right downstairs—I could meet you in the lobby in five minutes."

"I know," Hill said grimly. "But I'm under orders to keep an eye on you in case of situations like this."

Beatrice frowned. "By who? Steve?"

"Agent Romanoff."

* * *

The corridors were eerily quiet, no sounds of life emanating from behind any of the doors. Beatrice tried not to let her trepidation show as she walked briskly down the spiral staircase with Hill at her side, her gun trained behind them. If she was truthful, she had to admit that she wanted the folder just as much as she wanted her phone. She hadn't even gotten halfway through the letters addressed to her—letters from both Bucky and Steve. While it was undoubtedly flattering to see the medals that had been awarded to her for her service in the army, she couldn't put a price on the letters. It was like Bucky was speaking to her again across the seventy years that separated them.

"I know this is probably a ridiculous question, Agent Hill, but how do you know that J.A.R.V.I.S. didn't—didn't just break somehow?" Beatrice ventured as they arrived on the party deck, crossing the bar to the array of sofas. "Maybe it's just a coincidence."

But Hill was already shaking her head. "It's no coincidence. J.A.R.V.I.S. has several backup drives. If all of them were disabled, it means someone deliberately turned him off. As much as I can't believe I'm actually saying this, Stark would never be that careless."

The champagne flutes the women had been drinking from at dinner were still on the table, the tablecloth still covering it—but one of the chairs had been overturned and was lying on the floor several feet away from its previous position. Beatrice halted in the middle of the room, straining her ears—until she heard the sound of fast, ragged breathing somewhere nearby.

"Someone's here," she immediately told Hill, who had figured it out before her—the agent was already striding toward the table and ripping off the tablecloth in one swift movement. The champagne glasses toppled to the ground, the glass shattering and spinning across the floor, soaking the Persian rugs.

Beatrice was right—they weren't alone. A man was crouched under the table—a bald, slender figure wearing a black suit was handcuffed to the table legs. Beatrice glanced down and saw an overturned pair of glasses next to her feet. She bent over to retrieve them and, after a moment of deliberation, took one of the larger shards of glass from the flutes and tucked it inside her pocket.

Hill, to Beatrice's mild surprise, had lowered the gun, keeping it trained on the man's chained foot instead of his head, before reaching out and pulling off the tape that covered his mouth. He cowered at the sight of them, his eyes widening in panic. "P—please don't hurt me!" he begged, holding up his hands as best he could. "I'm sorry, Agent Hill, I didn't mean to let him in—he threatened my family—"

"It's all right, Mr. Jensen," Hill told him. Glancing back at Beatrice, she quickly explained, "Aaron Jensen is the night doorman for the building. A recent hire."

Beatrice slowly knelt down in front of him and wordlessly held out his glasses. Fumbling slightly, Jensen took them, stuttering his thanks, and placed them back on his head. "Thank you, ma'am. I don't know why he didn't just kill me—"

"Who?" Beatrice asked in her most soothing tone of voice. He had the same shellshocked look in his eyes that many of the soldiers did when they were brought to the field hospital.

"He—he called himself Crossbones."

"Rumlow," Hill breathed. "Brock Rumlow. He was the leader of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top counter-terrorist mission unit before he was revealed as Hydra. I thought he was killed at the Triskelion."

"He wore a mask. Never showed his face," Jensen gulped. "He said that if I didn't let him inside, his men would kill my wife and daughter. He knew my address, Agent Hill, I swear—"

"Nobody is blaming you," Beatrice said evenly. She gave him a quick once-over, searching for signs of injury; thankfully, there didn't appear to be any. "What did he want?"

Jensen shook his head frantically. "I don't know! I tried to call J.A.R.V.I.S., but he—Crossbones—had some sort of device—he pressed a remote and the intercom stopped working. He asked me where the Avengers were, but when I told him they were gone he made me bring him up here instead. He held a gun to my head the whole time. There was nothing I could do, please believe me!"

Beatrice looked over at Hill, whose dark blue eyes were fixed on the doorman. "We'll assign protection agents to your family right away," the other woman explained, strapping her gun back onto her thigh. "Mr. Stark will be notified of the security breach."

She moved forward to unfasten his handcuffs, and Beatrice straightened up out of her way. So Hydra had come back, then. She supposed it would have been only a matter of time before they resurfaced. Who had Rumlow wanted? Her? Steve? The Avengers? Clearly, she thought, he had expected them to be here and was forced to escape when they weren't. So why leave Jensen alive, then? Beatrice knew Hydra well enough to understand they were meticulous about tying up loose ends.

Unless Crossbones wanted them to know he was coming back.

"Agent Hill," Beatrice began, spinning around to inform her of this realization—but her eyes landed on the table in front of the sofa she'd been sitting on earlier, and noticed what was on it—or rather, what  _wasn't_ on it. The folder Natasha had given her, complete with the letters and her nursing distinctions, was gone, leaving only Darcy's empty hamburger wrapper and Beatrice's phone.

She was running over to the table before she fully understood the implications of its disappearance, shoving aside the phone and the wrapper as if the folder was somehow hiding under them, looking under the table, between the cushions, growing more frantic with every passing second. Something like panic swirled up inside her chest, fighting to move into her throat.

"What is it?" Hill asked, as calm and collected as usual, making her way over to the couches. Jensen followed at a slower pace, rubbing his wrists. Beatrice barely looked up at them.

"The folder—it's gone," she said dully, her eyes frantically moving around the lounge as if it would suddenly fall from the ceiling. "With the letters and my nursing decorations. He took it."

"I must unfortunately confirm your assertion, Miss Hartley."

The voice that echoed around the room was hardly familiar to Beatrice, but she recognized it right away. "J.A.R.V.I.S.! You're back!" she exclaimed, feeling a wave of relief rush through her. Hill and Jensen, too, looked shocked. "What happened?"

"Miss Potts was able to reprogram me at the last moment," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied. "I was available to Mr. Stark, but my connection to the tower was lost. Fortunately I detect no immediate threats in the area—"

"How far are you able to track a person through New York?" Beatrice interrupted. She looked over at Hill for guidance. "Using—using facial recognition?"

There was a beat of silence before the A.I. responded. "That depends, Miss Hartley. I shall search my database for an approximate number."

"We need to find Brock Rumlow," Hill said, stepping forward. Her hand was back on her gun again. "He shut off the security cameras and disabled you. We need to know where he went."

"Of course, Agent Hill. A Brock Rumlow was admitted into the MedStar Washington Hospital Center six weeks ago in critical condition. According to their records, he physically assaulted a nurse before escaping the premises. Nothing has been heard from him since, although it seems I did detect him approaching the tower before I was shut down. Allow me to scan facial recognition…"

"He can't have gone far," Beatrice said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She could feel her heart pounding through her clothes. "At least not on foot."

"If my calculations are correct, and I am reasonably certain they are, Brock Rumlow is heading west and is currently on the 44th Street and 10th Avenue intersection," J.A.R.V.I.S. told them promptly.

That was enough for Beatrice; she immediately snatched up her phone and made for the exit, breaking into a jog when she heard Hill calling after her.

"Hartley! Where are you going?"

"To find Rumlow!" Beatrice threw over her shoulder. "And I'd really appreciate it if you came with me!"

* * *

Of all the neighborhoods in New York Beatrice had been warned away from as a child, Hell's Kitchen definitely topped the list. Once, when she was growing up, a boy in her tenement had had one of his fingers chopped off for making eye contact with the wrong people, and even John Hartley had been wary of the place. The rumors went that even the police refused to venture into it. The gangs warring for control of the neighborhood didn't make any distinctions between their enemies and those who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Beatrice had long ago accepted the fact that she had seen far worse than anything even Hell's Kitchen could throw at her, but she was still admittedly underwhelmed by what she saw. The sidewalks were mostly empty aside from groups of smokers on corners, lounging on the steps of the low-rise, mainly residential buildings. Rundown, certainly, but not  _dangerous._  In fact, Beatrice thought, it wasn't so different from Brooklyn.

"They really cleaned this place up," Hill remarked, answering her unspoken questions. "Rent is still obscene, but what can you do?"

She sounded remarkably relaxed considering the situation, her hands steady on the wheel of the nondescript black car she'd taken from the tower's enormous garage, while Beatrice fidgeted impatiently in the passenger seat. The only light came from the glow of her phone in the dark car as she fumbled with it, trying to remember what Steve had told her. Touching the phone icon did indeed bring up a dial pad, but Beatrice hesitated to call him. What if she interrupted the mission? What  _could_ she tell him, anyway? If he knew where she was, he would order her back to the tower right away. But Beatrice's finger still hovered over the button, wanting to hear his voice if nothing else.

The car pulled to a smooth stop under a flickering streetlight and a prominent NO PARKING sign. Beatrice glanced over at Hill, alarmed, as the agent turned off the ignition and opened the door. "This is it?" she asked, staring at the building before them. It looked incredibly nondescript, unintelligible graffiti covering the walls and a rusted front door. Most of the windows had missing panes. It looked decidedly abandoned.

"It is according to J.A.R.V.I.S.," Hill replied. "Apparently it also doubles as a truck warehouse. He must be waiting for someone to pick him up."

Beatrice anxiously chewed on her bottom lip as Hill rounded the vehicle and strode across the sidewalk without looking back. "Wait!" she called, tossing her phone aside and scrambling to open her own door. "What about me?"

Hill paused and cocked her head back to survey Beatrice. "What about you?" she repeated dryly. "You're staying right here."

"But I have to go in," Beatrice said desperately. "If Rumlow has that folder, he has everything. Who I am, what I was to Steve, my connections to Bucky…and if he was Hydra, they'll know where to find me now."

To her credit, Hill didn't even blink. "I know. That's why I'm here. I'm trained. Look, if you're really that worried, take this." She tossed something shiny and silver at Beatrice, who nearly dropped it when she realized it was the pistol she'd seen earlier. "There are a few more agents shadowing us. They'll come get you if they suspect something went wrong."

"But—"

Her protests fell on deaf ears; Hill only paused when she was halfway up the crumbling stone steps that led to the door and called back, "Watch out for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. I'm hearing he's the latest vigilante to grace New York's streets these days." And then she was gone, disappearing into the dark recesses of the building.

Beatrice stayed still for another long moment, mind racing. She couldn't just stand back and wait for Hill to return—but the agents that were trailing them would surely notice if she went into the building. The street appeared empty, aside from a group of loud youths on the opposite block, but there could be any number of undercover agents hiding in the parked cars along the street. She sighed, not wanting to lead them into danger if they decided to follow her.

But if they didn't  _notice_ her going into the building…

Suddenly struck with an idea, Beatrice whirled around and fixed her eyes on a lamppost some fifty yards away on the opposite side of the street. If she strained her ears, she could hear the buzz of the electricity running through it. Slowly raising her hand, she closed her eyes and tried to gather up the Tesseract's energy. The Hydra agent in Brooklyn had been right—Beatrice's powers only seemed to flare up when she felt strong emotions, though Bruce Banner had theorized she would eventually learn to better control them with enough practice. Concentrating as hard as she could, she gritted her teeth and clenched her fist—unconsciously taking a step forward onto the street—

And then there was a quiet but audible pop and the light flickered dimly before being extinguished completely as the glass around it shattered. Grinning triumphantly under her breath, Beatrice turned on one heel and dashed for the building, hoping that she wasn't too late.


	49. XLIX

"Put the gun down, sweetheart."

The voice that sounded from the depths of the building was low and rough. Beatrice paused but didn't loosen her grip on the handgun. Her index finger was shaking on the trigger. Everything was in complete and utter darkness: even with the serum, her eyes couldn't penetrate the shadows.

A floorboard creaked loudly under her shoe as she took another cautious step forward, and Beatrice winced as the sound echoed like a gunshot. She reached out blindly and felt something like wallpaper peeling under her fingers. Hadn't Hill said this place was some sort of warehouse? Beatrice had the distinct sense she was somewhere very narrow. Where  _was_ Hill, anyway? A growing sense of unease whispered that she should have stayed in the car.

" _I SAID DROP THE GUN!"_

The roar came from right beside her, and the gun was pried out of her hand with startling strength at the same moment bright light flooded her vision. Beatrice had just enough time to jump aside when she saw a fist flying at her and smash inches away from where her face had been right into the wall, plaster raining down over her. Beatrice instinctively ducked, but a foot shot out in front of her and she lost her balance, landing hard on the floor. She immediately lunged for her gun, but a hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked backward as the cold metal of a knife dug into her throat. A thin trickle of blood ran down her collarbone as she stared at the twisted, gruesome face of a man almost entirely covered in bloodsoaked bandages, one peeling off to reveal a horrific red scar underneath. His clothes were stained with filth and his breath was rancid. A pair of eyes blacker than pitch bore into her own. She was pinned against the wall his fist had just slammed through.

Her eyes went wide as she stared up at him, struggling to free herself. She wasn't sure if she had gone weak with fear or the man looming over her was impossibly strong. Her wrists were trapped so tightly she could feel the circulation being cut off; she couldn't have used her powers even if she tried. A knee slammed into her chest, and she involuntarily gasped, feeling her eyes water. She couldn't even tell she had the serum now, what with the brute strength of the creature above her.

"I was hoping you'd show up," Brock Rumlow snarled, spittle flying out of his scarred mouth, and with a horrifying clarity Beatrice realized she hadn't come here of her own accord after all.

She had been lured.

The ceiling spun above her as she twisted her head to the side, trying to see where she was. A splintered wood floor, bare walls, a narrow opening barely wide enough for two people—was this some sort of front for the warehouse? Beatrice hadn't stood a chance of avoiding him. But then again, what residential buildings in Hell's Kitchen were wide enough to have been converted?

She tried to curl her fingers into a fist, to grab the shard of glass she'd taken from her champagne flute, but Rumlow grabbed her wrist and bent her fingers backward until Beatrice cried out in pain, salt stinging her eyes. She knew that the serum wouldn't last long against this man. She wasn't invulnerable. And he had already beaten Steve once.

"Try that again and it'll hurt even worse," Crossbones warned. His face filled her entire field of vision as he bent down close to her, smelling of blood. "But you're a  _nurse._ You oughta know that," he hissed, rolling around the word on his tongue before hurling it at her as if it was an unimaginable insult. "I figured Rogers would want those letters back, but I didn't think you'd come to get them first. Ninety-four, huh? You look good for your age. Too bad your beloved  _Bucky_  won't have you."

It took all of Beatrice's self-control not to retort, to react instinctively and take the bait. She tensed, her teeth digging into her bottom lip with the effort of biting back her words, and Rumlow sneered, correctly guessing her struggle. "Talk all you want, sweetheart," he growled. "We're not going anywhere."

Still Beatrice refused to speak, knowing that would only give him what he wanted. She could feel the Tesseract's power winding around her insides, fueled by her fear and fury, but unable to find an outlet. She was too inexperienced, too unused to it. If she could only free her hands—

Rumlow swore loudly from above her and then, as if her prayers had been answered by God himself, loosened his grip on her wrists. Beatrice immediately kicked his legs out from under him and rolled out of his grasp, throwing out her arm towards her discarded gun and willing it toward her. She didn't even need to envision it beforehand: an explosion of blue fire bursting from her fingers sent the gun flying right into her hand, and she leapt to her feet as she felt the satisfying clink of cold metal against her palm. Rumlow knelt in the middle of the narrow hallway, trapped between Beatrice and Maria Hill, two guns pointed at his head.

"Sorry about the wait," Hill called over to her, as casually as if they were speaking over lunch. "I had to make sure he wasn't going to reveal anything else. You were never in any danger."

Beatrice stared blankly at the other woman, her mind struggling to comprehend the ridiculousness of the situation. "You knew I was here?" she asked, almost forgetting about the very real threat kneeling between them.

"If you're anything like Rogers, you didn't even bother to wait before rushing inside," Hill dryly remarked, and for the first time Beatrice could see why Fury held her in such high regard. She possessed the type of unflinching coolness that couldn't be taught. "Why do you think I gave you that gun?"

And Beatrice, still dazed, made her first mistake: she loosened her grip on it. Rumlow, seizing his chance, lunged at her with a speed that shouldn't have been possible given the extent of his injuries, and knocked it out of her grasp for the second time. The ear-splitting echo of a gunshot sent Beatrice reeling backward and Rumlow fell to the ground again with a howl of pain, clutching his bleeding leg. Hill had pulled the trigger so fast he hadn't even had time to touch Beatrice.

She snatched up her gun again as Hill strode over to Rumlow and kicked him to the floor, her foot pressing down hard on his leg. He let out a stream of curses as blood streamed onto the floor, soaking Hill's boot. Beatrice felt faintly ill.

"We worked together, Brock," Hill said evenly. Her gun was pointed at his forehead. "You know I'll do it."

"I know you will," Rumlow hissed. His face was twisted with loathing, fresh blood spilling onto his bandages. "But if I go, this whole place does too."

Hill didn't even flinch. Beatrice admired her fortitude. "What are you talking about?"

Rumlow's face twisted into what was supposed to be a feral grin, but he could barely manage a grimace—nevertheless the effect was unsettling. "You'll see," he rasped, and kicked out with his good leg as a small black rectangle tumbled out from his boot. A detonator.

Somehow, Beatrice knew what was going to happen before it did, and her instinct to help, to protect, took over her rage at Crossbones. She leapt at Hill, smashing both of them against the front door. It splintered under their combined weight, and they went tumbling down the front steps just as the building behind them exploded in a deafening burst of burning, agonizing fire.

* * *

It had all begun when she'd left for Europe. No—before that, even. When George and Winifred Barnes were killed in their beloved Ford. When Heinz Kruger had shot Pryce and Beatrice knelt over his body, blood seeping out of his chest as he had died. Death. Always death, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it. Mrs. Banner being strangled in her apartment. Diana's glassy stare as she crumpled to the floor. The boy Matthew being shot in the back of the head using a weapon built from the same power that now lay dormant within her. Her mother bloody and still in childbirth. Her father limp on the floor of their tenement. The unmarked graves of the children between her and Henry. The countless soldiers she had watched die, some of them resigned, others terrified, but all of it borne with the same finality.

She was dying too, now.

 _But not yet,_  a voice whispered inside her mind.  _Not yet._

She saw Steve's face, weary but determined. Natasha's steely glare and flame-red hair. Blue mist swirling around her fingertips. The roar of a motorcycle. The gleaming skyscrapers of New York. Henry's wizened features. The startling cold of cryofreeze. The blackness of unconsciousness. Zola's accented whisper. A train rocking under her. Lorraine's once-pretty face twisted with hatred. The damp hardness of a stone floor, soft sheets under her—Bucky kissing the breath out of her, making love to her, his hair in his face and his eyes half-closed, his heart slamming so hard even she could feel it, sweaty skin and tangled sheets, the heady intimacy—

_No. Before._

_Before him?_  Beatrice thought in confusion.

 _No. Before_  them.

She did, reluctantly—and suddenly she was sitting in the dentist's office taking dictation. Sitting in school, staring out the window and longing to be free. Sitting on the front step of the tenement and crying, her knees scraped, her dress ripped, knowing her parents were fighting.

And what had Beatrice done in the end? She had fallen in love with a soldier, too.

* * *

"If I may inform you, Captain Rogers, Miss Hartley's pulse is steadily increasing. She should be awakening shortly."

J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice echoed weakly through Beatrice's ears, her mind sluggish and her thoughts muddled. She knew, somehow, that she was conscious, yet her brain protested against it. Something shuffled beside her, stirring up air, and a warm hand gently closed over her own, sensation slowly returning to her extremities.

She fought to open her eyes, struggling against the heaviness that weighed her down. She squeezed her fingers around the person holding her hand, hoping to anchor herself to consciousness. Light slowly trickled into her pupils as she forced open her eyelids.

The bare white ceiling of her bedroom at Avengers Tower greeted her, and Beatrice turned her head to the side with a wince as pain shot through her skull. She immediately jerked her hand back with a start when she saw Steve sitting on the edge of her bed, concern in his eyes. His brow was furrowed in worry, and Beatrice frowned right back at him, her mind still clouded.

"Steve?" she asked groggily, lifting her head from the mound of pillows to inspect him more closely. He wore a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of dark jeans. The overall effect wasn't entirely unpleasant. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Sokovia."

" _Was,"_ he corrected gently, taking his hand away from the space next to her own to rub the back of his neck. "We got back last night."

"Last night?" Beatrice repeated, glancing over at the clock hanging above the door. It was nearing either noon or midnight. "How—how long was I out?"

"Three days."

"Three  _days?"_ she echoed, staring at him in distress. "I don't understand. What  _happened?"_

Steve raised his eyebrows in something that resembled disapproval. "You were hurt, Beatrice. The explosion in Hell's Kitchen nearly killed both you and Agent Hill. It  _would_  have killed Hill if you hadn't shielded her from most of the blast. J.A.R.V.I.S. says the serum was the only thing that kept you alive. We wanted to let you wake up on your own."

Beatrice shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide a wince as her limbs protested against the movement. Her entire body felt sore and her head was pounding, but at least it was more bearable than emerging from cryofreeze. "Is she all right? Agent Hill?"

Steve nodded; a rueful grin crossed his face. "Yeah, she'll be fine. But we didn't know about you at first. We were still in Sokovia when J.A.R.V.I.S. told us what happened. I was this close to leaving the rest of them and coming back to see you." He shook his head and regarded her with a look of affectionate exasperation. "I'm not used to being the one waiting at someone's bedside. I'm beginning to understand what it was like for Bucky when we were kids."

"Some people would call that payback," Beatrice remarked, earning herself a wry smirk from Steve. She felt gratified that his relief was so palpable. "Was the raid successful? Did you find Strucker?"

"As successful as it could have been. We got the scepter—Stark and Banner are studying it right now. Strucker was handed over to NATO. It looks like he was trying to experiment with it—reanimate the Chitauri. The aliens that attacked New York," he clarified at Beatrice's confused expression. "But as far as we know, they haven't completed anything. Thor will take the scepter to Asgard after Tony has a closer look at it."

Beatrice took a moment to digest his words, allowing relief to sink in. It all sounded simple— _too_ simple. She had the distinct sense that Steve wasn't telling her something, that the crease in his brow when he'd mentioned Strucker was due to another problem entirely. But she had enough trust in him to know he would tell her if it involved her or Bucky. She would trust Steve with her life, and so she tried to push the thought to the back of her mind. "I'm sorry I didn't try to contact you," she began haltingly, awkwardly staring over his shoulder at the chaise longue in the corner, over which a pillow and blanket had been thrown. Had he slept here in case she woke up? "It all happened so fast, and I didn't want to bother you. I figured you would have come straight back to New York if you knew."

"You're right, I would have," Steve remarked. His eyes were very blue as he regarded her steadily. "The others could have done it without me. Listen…Beatrice…" He coughed awkwardly and glanced down at the duvet. "You never bother me, all right? I thought we established this in 1942." This brought a smile to Beatrice's face, and he looked pleased, sitting up straighter and meeting her eyes again. "I'm always here if you need me."

"I know," Beatrice said quietly. She glanced over at the phone on her nightstand, sitting under the floral lampshade she had once openly admired in the tower's reception area. That night, an identical one had been in her bedroom. She wondered who had been responsible for that. Drawing in a deep breath, she ventured, "I guess this is the part where I apologize."

"Apologize?" Steve asked; he seemed genuinely taken aback. "For what?"

"For going to find Crossbones myself. It was just—" Beatrice wrung her hands, searching for the right words. "He took my letters, Steve!" she finally burst out. "He can expose Bucky as the Winter Soldier, tell the public what happened to me."

Steve shook his head. There was something hard and bitter in his eyes. "It's not your fault, Beatrice. It's mine. Rumlow was after me. He wants revenge for what I did to him in Washington. Tony thinks he must have accessed Hydra databases and was able to disable J.A.R.V.I.S. with their technology. He wanted whoever was in the tower to follow him. That building wasn't a warehouse at all—it's where Hydra stored some of their weaponry. He was going to kill you both to send a message to us."

Beatrice swallowed hard. "Is he dead?"

"No," Steve said tightly. "At least not that we know of. We couldn't find a body. He still has the letters, Beatrice. I'm sorry. But it's highly unlikely he'll come back anytime soon. He's still too injured."

"But if he has access to Hydra technology—"

"Not anymore." Steve stood up and looked seconds away from beginning to pace in frustration. Beatrice recognized this self-directed blame, but could think of no way to remedy it. "He no longer allies himself with them. He's just out for himself. He'll probably try to blackmail me again someday."

Beatrice leaned back against her pillows and pressed her hand to her forehead, wincing when it brushed against a bruise. "What about J.A.R.V.I.S.?"

"I am quite unharmed, Miss Hartley. Mr. Stark is installing new security protocols to prevent this sort of incident from occurring again." The cool, robotic voice was quick to reply. "He wishes for you to join him in the laboratory when you are well enough."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. What could Tony possibly want to talk to  _her_ about? "I'm well enough now," she said immediately.

"You don't have to hurry," Steve was quick to assure her. He sounded as if the last thing he wanted to do was go to the laboratory.

Beatrice glanced over at him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "I'm fine," she said, pushing aside the bedclothes and standing up. But she had barely taken a step forward when the world tilted around her and she swayed on her feet. Steve was immediately at her side, one hand on her back and the other tight on her arm in case she fell again. All Beatrice could see was blue.

"Look," she told him pointedly, hoping her sudden lapse in concentration was still a side-effect of her injuries. "Wouldn't  _you_  be like this too after not moving for days, serum or not? I'm a nurse, Steve."

"I think medical practices have changed a bit since the forties."

His expression was completely serious. Beatrice sighed, but didn't move to pull away—and neither did he.

* * *

"I gotta say, you did good, kid. Not many people would have the guts to do what you did. Or tried to do."

Tony's dark eyes glittered in amusement as he stared down at Beatrice, who shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Though the Avengers appeared tired from the mission, they all seemed to be in fairly good spirits after their trip to Sokovia—except for Clint, who had apparently been injured in the firefight and was recovering in the medbay. Bruce Banner hovered just behind Tony, wearing a white lab coat and fiddling with his glasses.

"Why is she a kid but I'm an old man?" Steve questioned from behind Beatrice. Tony smirked.

 _Howard used to call me that too,_ Beatrice thought with a touch of regret. She suspected it was due to her height more than anything else. Still, she was flattered that Stark had complimented her; she suspected genuine praise didn't come too often from him.

"He feels guilty, but he'll never tell you that."

Natasha crossed her arms as she came walking up to Beatrice wearing an unreadable expression. The arrow necklace glinted on her neck as it briefly caught in the light.

"Guilty for what?" Beatrice asked, trying to hide her discomfort. She had no idea how to act around her niece. Even the  _word_ filled her with a sense of dread.

"He blames himself for the security breach," the spy explained. "Deep down he's glad you're all right."

Beatrice gave a short laugh. "That's reassuring," she said wryly. "But I guess I'm guilty, too. Agent Hill told me you wanted her to keep an eye on me while you were in Sokovia."

Natasha's unflinching green gaze honed in on Beatrice, her lips pursed in contemplation. "In the end  _you_  probably saved her life. She's still out of it—she didn't recover as fast as you. But she'll be fine."

Of course, she hadn't answered the real question. Knowing she likely wouldn't at this point, Beatrice decided to move to a more favorable topic. "What about Aaron Jensen? The doorman Rumlow threatened."

Natasha shrugged one shoulder. "Stark's giving him six months of paid leave and a place to lay low for a while. I don't think he's going to complain about that."

"I guess not." But Beatrice's attention had suddenly focused on something else as quickly as if a switch had been turned on: a glowing blue stone encased at the top of a long gold staff lying on the table behind Bruce.  _The scepter,_  she thought with a peculiar sense of awe. Before Beatrice knew what she was doing, she was drifting toward it, a nagging pull deep in her chest—

Someone grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to a stop. "This is why I wanted to see you," Tony said, his hand tight on her upper arm. The eerie azure glow of the stone was reflected in his eyes as he gazed down at it. "Looks similar to the Tesseract, doesn't it?"

Beatrice nodded mechanically, but she barely heard his words. As if she wasn't acting entirely of her own will, she reached a hand out to it—she felt strangely giddy, like she wasn't inhabiting her own body anymore—and just before her fingers made contact with the stone, there was a burst of blinding yellow light and she was roughly pulled from her own mind.

* * *

Her cheek scratched against fabric; a warm, heavy weight was draped across her waist. Beatrice's eyes snapped open—she was lying on an unfamiliar bed, staring at a light pastel wallpaper she couldn't remember ever seeing before.

She looked down, alarmed, and saw an arm curled loosely around her, fingers splayed on her hip. Beatrice's eyes slowly moved up the arm, past an elbow and a shoulder, until finally landing on the person lying next to her, a soft snore echoing around the bedroom. She immediately scrambled backwards, but forgetting the bedclothes, ended up tumbling down hard onto the floor, still tangled in the sheets.

Bucky awoke with a start, raising his head and blinking sleepily at her. He was undeniably  _her_ Bucky, Bucky as she had met him, with short, closely-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. He looked younger than he ever had during the war. It was something in his eyes—something lifted, lighter, as if all he had seen and done no longer weighed him down.

No, Beatrice thought, it was as if it had  _never_ weighed him down.

"Rosie?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"

Beatrice gave a choked sob at hearing the name again, the simple word piercing through her like a spear. "B— _Bucky,"_ she gasped hoarsely. Her entire body felt numb.  _"How—?"_

The look of confusion on his face quickly morphed into one of concern. "What is it, doll?" he asked again, soothingly, the endearment falling easily from his lips. He threw off his own bedclothes and hurried over to her; he wore nothing but a pair of khaki shorts, the scars Beatrice had once traced along his body gone. She could only watch wordlessly as he untangled her from the blankets before taking her arms and pulling her gently back onto the bed.

Beatrice didn't resist; her legs felt like jelly. "It's not you," she said dully, her head shaking robotically. Her eyes were beginning to burn from refusing to blink. "It  _can't_ be you. You're—you're—"

"It is me, darlin'," Bucky said solemnly. She recognized something like worry in his gray eyes. He reached out and took her hand in his, slowly bringing it up to his bare chest. His skin felt warm and solid and  _real_. Beatrice could feel his heart pounding under his ribs. "Every inch, I promise."

She finally met his gaze as he raised her hand again, this time to his face. The beginnings of stubble were rough under Beatrice's fingers as she tentatively ran her hand over his jaw, her fingertips coming to rest on his lips. His mouth parted slightly and his breath ghosted across her skin. His other hand came up to rest over her own, holding her there. Beatrice could hardly breathe.

"God, I love you, Rosie," Bucky murmured. Heat rushed to Beatrice's face as she pushed away the part of her mind that was telling her this was too good to be true—he was saying exactly what she wanted, doing what she wanted—it was like a feverish dream, but since when were dreams so detailed that she could see flecks of brown in Bucky's eyes, could count each of his eyelashes? But she had to know—she had to ask him—

"Do you?" Beatrice stopped, stuttered, and swallowed hard, suddenly unable to get the words out. "What if—what if you forgot everything? Forgot about me?"

Bucky looked truly alarmed now, drawing back to stare at her. "What are you talking about? I could never forget you, doll. It would be like forgetting myself."

"No, what if someone… _made_  you forget? Took your memories away?" Beatrice asked desperately. She took his face in both of her hands, silently pleading. "Would you still love me? Could you ever remember me again? Would you still—would you still want me?"

Bucky's head shook in disbelief, a tiny movement he didn't seem to be aware of. "Of course I'd still love you. Forever. If I didn't, it wouldn't be  _me_ at all." He peered closely at her. "Is that what you want me to say? Did you have a nightmare or something?"

"Something like that," Beatrice admitted, and he pulled her close to him again as she automatically relaxed in the warmth of his arms.

"Don't worry, sugar," he murmured into her hair. "We have the whole weekend to ourselves. We don't need to sleep at all. Becca'll spoil Elena and George, you know she will."

Beatrice stared at him, uncomprehending. "What? My mother and your father? But they're both dead…"

"Rosie," Bucky said, very seriously, "I'm talking about our children."

Her mind went completely, utterly blank. "C—children?" she stammered, her mouth falling open in awe.  _"Our_ children. I—I never imagined—God, but—" A horrifying thought suddenly struck her. "What about the war?"

"What about it?" Bucky asked. "It's been over for years."

"Years?" Beatrice echoed. "But we're so  _young_ —I mean, we were definitely older than this when we were in Europe."

Bucky frowned. "Rosie, doll, we were never in Europe," he said gently. "Germany surrendered the day before I was shipped out."

"We never…went?" Beatrice struggled to accept the ramifications of such a scenario. She had never become an army nurse, had never met Diana, Caroline and Ruth. She and Bucky had never been captured by Hydra and experimented on with a prototype super soldier serum. Schmidt had never held her head underwater while she gasped for air. Zola had never touched her. She had never seen the Tesseract. She had never known the suffocating numbness of cryofreeze, the shock of the world she had awoken in, no Avengers or Strucker or Crossbones or mysterious powers. Bucky had never fallen from the train, never had his memories erased and forced to kill for Hydra. He had never been the Winter Soldier; never even  _been_ a soldier. They were married now. They had  _children._ She could wake up with Bucky's arms around her every morning.

_We were going to move to Indiana and live on a farm._

It slowly dawned on Beatrice that the bedroom was far too quiet, far too large, for them to be in an apartment, or even the Brooklyn Heights brownstone. "We're not in New York, are we?" she asked slowly, and Bucky shook his head.

Beatrice exhaled slowly, trying to take it all in. It was too good to be true. Except—

"Where's Steve?"

His reaction was visceral; a shudder passed through his body and even his lips went pale. "Don't make me say it out loud, Rosie," he muttered. "Don't—"

"Bucky,  _please—"_

He forced the words out as if they physically pained him, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows. "Last year he—he got TB. Like his mom. He didn't make it."

_The doctors say it'll be a miracle if I live past thirty._

Beatrice's breath came out in quick, ragged pants. "No," she said furiously. "He's  _not_ dead. He's still alive—he's not—" She pushed Bucky's arms away and staggered out of the bed. She felt dizzy, nauseous, and her surroundings suddenly tilted crazily. Bucky's face warped in and out of focus. "STEVE!" she screamed, so loudly her throat ached. "STEVE!"

"Beatrice!"

The voice that finally broke through her vision was Steve's himself, and Beatrice turned to it blindly, grabbing onto his arms tightly and refusing to let go. She had somehow ended up on the floor of the laboratory, and Steve was kneeling next to her, holding her up just as he had helped her when she had stumbled in her room earlier. "Oh, thank God," she muttered, and threw her arms around him. Though she knew the vision hadn't been real, her ensuing panic certainly had been. Bruce had thankfully taken the scepter away and was retreating into the shadows.

"What happened?" Steve asked into her hair. His hand was rubbing up and down her back, trying to soothe her. "What did you see?"

Beatrice drew in a shaky breath, concentrating on the solid realness of him. "I saw Bucky," she whispered, her voice cracking. "And you—he said you were dead."

Over Steve's shoulder, she saw Tony turn an unnatural shade of white.


	50. L

The walkway that circled around the tower's landing pad was almost entirely made of glass, including the floor, which offered an unobstructed view straight down eighty floors to the ground below. At any moment it seemed in danger of vanishing entirely, leaving only air behind.

Beatrice crossed her arms over the railing, her attention only half-focused on a group of construction workers on the roof of a shorter building across the street, their bright orange vests the only spot of color among the gray sea of concrete. Her mind, however, was somewhere else entirely. She had escaped out here to be free of the Avengers' bickering about the scepter and its origins, none of which she had any idea how to answer. All she knew was that her visceral reaction to it had left her shaken to her core, unable to get the vision out of her mind. It had seemed even more real than what she saw in the Norn Stone. Thor had suggested it was somehow connected to the Tesseract, and the residual effects left inside Beatrice after Hydra's experimentation on her had caused the extreme reaction. Frankly, though, she didn't care how similar they were or what had caused the vision—all she could think about was what she had seen and what it meant. Bucky's face appeared in her mind again: her Bucky, her husband, a man who had never seen the horrors of war. Their  _children_ —Elena and George. But had it come at the cost of Steve's life?

What was she willing to live without for what she truly wanted? At least here and now, both men were alive and safe. But if Bucky was only a ghost of his former self, and Steve willingly threw his life on the line every day, was it really worth it?

She straightened up and ran her hands through her hair in frustration, as if she could somehow pull the thoughts out of her head. She felt so  _useless,_ sitting around Avengers Tower while Bucky could be anywhere in the world. She had spent the weeks since her return to New York moping around Central Park feeling sorry for herself. Yes, she knew that if anyone could help her find Bucky, it would be Tony Stark, but  _she_ wanted to help, too.

Perhaps that was why she had been so determined to chase after Crossbones, to feel as if she was in control of  _something,_  no matter how dangerous it was. She had at least been useful during the war, even if she wasn't actively fighting. Now her options were severely limited.

But God, he had read her  _letters!_ This man, this Hydra agent, who had known Bucky as the Winter Soldier, who might even have given him orders—he had read private letters between her, Bucky, and Steve, and could use that knowledge against any one of them with disastrous results. He already knew Beatrice would be willing to do anything to get them back. He could destroy them. He could hand them in to the government, which would not only throw Beatrice under a spotlight, but would also expose everything Bucky had done and perhaps even trigger a worldwide search for him that even he wouldn't be able to escape. It could even destroy Steve's reputation and, by extension, Captain America's. What would that do to the Avengers? Rumlow had already proven he would go to extreme lengths to exact revenge on Steve. He had enough resources to break into Avengers Tower, a location Beatrice had been told was one of the most secure in the world. If she wasn't safe here, she wasn't safe anywhere. And neither was Bucky.

"Admiring the view?"

Beatrice turned away from the edge, her hair blowing in the wind, pushing it out of her eyes to see Tony Stark himself approaching her. His eyes were hidden by a pair of very large, very dark sunglasses.

She had no idea what his expression was, or whether his carefully practiced tone was serious or sarcastic, so she settled for the safest answer. "It's something, all right," she said, glancing down at Manhattan spread below them, its streets and buildings and people—so many people—all seeming to move to New York's own steady heartbeat. In all her traveling, Beatrice had never encountered any other place like it—like home.

Tony stopped next to her, his hands on the railing, staring to the south. The skyscrapers were reflected in the darkened lens of his glasses. "There used to be two more towers there," he remarked after a moment, nodding in the direction of the financial district. "Little history lesson for you."

Beatrice bit her lip and shifted uneasily from side to side. "I know," she replied. "Steve told me."

"Rogers?" Tony asked incredulously, his eyebrows shooting up. "Wait, that actually doesn't surprise me. He probably took it personally."

"Personally?" she echoed.

"Uh, I don't know if you've noticed, but the man's called  _Captain America,"_ Tony scoffed. "Not to mention his hero complex is the size of Maine."

Beatrice exhaled softly, dropping her gaze. "Even Steve can't save everybody. As much as he wants to."

Tony suddenly rounded on her, his finger pointed to her chest. "How many soldiers did  _you_  save?"

Instead of backing away, Beatrice stood her ground and regarded him unflinchingly. "Not enough," she said evenly.

"I was here," Tony said flatly, smacking his hand on the railing. The fight suddenly seemed to go out of him. "Right here in this spot, and I watched the towers fall, and I thought that things couldn't possibly get any worse. That I'd witnessed the closest approximation of hell I'd get to see—in this lifetime, anyway."

"Sometimes the greatest threat to humanity is other humans," Beatrice said quietly.

"Wrong," her companion said darkly. He wasn't looking at her anymore. "Fast-forward eleven years, and aliens started raining down on us. Look, I'd love for you to be right, Trixie, but you're not. The truth is—look, I swore that I would never feel that helpless again. And I'll do whatever I can to stop it from happening, whether the threat comes from here or up there."

It was a long while before Beatrice spoke again. "Have you succeeded?" she asked hesitantly, lifting her eyes to his. Was he trying to apologize, albeit in a very roundabout way, for Rumlow breaking into the tower?

Tony's mouth hardened into a thin line. "I will," he said flatly, and abruptly strode away from her. Beatrice watched him leave, opening her mouth to protest—to question—but nothing came out. The wind whipped around her again, stronger than ever, and she tightened her grip on the railing, her knuckles turning white. A feeling of dread had settled in the pit of her stomach for reasons she couldn't quite explain.

Far below her, the wail of a siren pierced the crowded streets.

* * *

Music pulsed dully from the floor above her; the low rumble of chatter, the clinking of wine glasses, occasionally interrupted by a shriek of laughter, provided the background ambience as Beatrice shifted nervously in front of the elevator, wary at the prospect of mingling in such a large crowd. Tony had insisted on her attending the victory party he was throwing that night in honor of the Avengers destroying the last Hydra base and finding the scepter. All of his rich and famous friends would be there, from high-ranking politicians to stars of films Beatrice had never heard of, much less seen. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she was going just to please Steve, who clearly looked forward to these events as much as she did. Beatrice gave him a sideways glance as the elevator doors slid open and he gently ushered her inside first. He still wore the striking blue shirt he'd had on earlier, and Beatrice guessed he hadn't been the one to pick out his surprisingly modern jeans. Again, she couldn't help but notice how well the ensemble suited him. He looked curiously over at her, noticing her stare, and she quickly turned away, adjusting the gray shawl around her shoulders and unsure herself why her face suddenly felt warm.  _It's just Steve,_ she told herself firmly, but the butterflies in her stomach told a different story.

He held out his arm to her, a half-smile on his face, and Beatrice stared dumbly at it for a moment before realizing his intent and circling her own arm through his, returning the grin. She felt safer,  _better_  somehow with Steve beside her. As if she could face more than she could if she was alone.

"Ready?" he asked. He sounded as serious as if he was going into battle. Beatrice couldn't help but stifle a giggle.

"Lead the way, Captain," she teased, and felt his silent laughter.

When they emerged out onto the party deck, to her utmost relief, few people turned their heads. The lounge was alive with all manner of men and women, some drinking at the bar, others dancing to a live band playing in the corner, some lounging on the chairs, others admiring the view from the windows. Beatrice was suddenly grateful she had changed into a simple forest-green dress and a warm shawl. Several days after arriving at the tower, her closet had been filled with simple, modest clothing that was exactly her size. While it wasn't exactly what she was used to, it was far more to her taste than most of the clothes she saw people wearing this century. She still hadn't quite gotten used to the idea of wearing long pants every day.

"Captain!"

Steve immediately turned to the voice, as if the title was a reflex to him now, as much a part of him as his own name. Beatrice tightened her grip on his arm as if it was a lifeline, peering around his broad frame to see who had noticed them. An old man was hobbling toward them with his cane heavily striking the ground; his glasses, like Tony's, were tinted so she couldn't see his eyes. His white hair was nearly parted and he wore a faded bomber jacket similar to one Steve owned.

"Lieutenant," Steve greeted, raising his other arm to give the man a salute. Beatrice allowed herself to relax slightly. "I hoped I'd see you here. Are you enjoying the festivities?" His tone was dry as he gestured to the scene around them.

"Oh, very well," the man replied, resting both of his hands on the handle of his cane. "I'll say that Stark really knows how to throw a party, but I'd hoped the drinks would be a little bit stronger. They just don't mix 'em like they used to."

Steve laughed. "I'm sure Thor can help you with that. Beatrice," he said, indicating her at his side, "This is Lieutenant Lieber. The Commandos and I fought alongside his unit at Omaha Beach. Lieutenant, this is Beatrice Hartley, a close friend of mine." He didn't mention that she was nearly as old as him, and for that Beatrice was grateful.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," she said, reaching out to shake his gnarled hand and watching him curiously. The name didn't ring any bells, but then again she had come across thousands of men during her time in Europe. It was entirely possible she, or one of her fellow nurses, could be the reason he was standing here today. A long-buried sense of pride began to rise in her chest, mixed with a heavy dose of nostalgia and sadness.

"Any friend of the Captain's is a friend of mine," Lieber said, lowering his glasses just enough to give her a sly wink. He paused, and she could have sworn she saw recognition flicker in his eyes. "Say, you look strangely familiar. My mind's not as sharp as it used to be, but I swear you look like a girl I once met during the war."

"I get that a lot," Beatrice said, completely straight-faced, while Steve hid a smile.

The two men began to reminisce about their time in the war, trading stories of foxholes and ambushes. Beatrice couldn't relate to this sort of conversation, never having actually been on the front lines, and so turned her attention to the other guests, searching for other familiar faces. She spotted Bruce and Clint, who looked to be fully recovered, sharing drinks with a pair of senators, and Thor had taken over the bar. Tony was, unsurprisingly, entertaining a group of women who were hanging on to his every word. Natasha was nowhere to be seen.

A flash of bright red caught the corner of Beatrice's eye, and her gaze was instantly drawn to it. A woman in a striking red dress was leaning against the pool table, in conversation with a distinguished-looking gentleman who was talking animatedly. Beatrice gave a small start and quietly unwound her arm from Steve's before slinking across the room to Maria Hill. She must have left her hair down to hide the bruises on her neck from Crossbones' attack.

Hill turned as Beatrice approached, and though the other woman was paler than usual, she looked pleased to see her. "Beatrice!" she exclaimed, and reached out to draw her closer to the table, an arm around her shoulders. Beatrice wondered how many drinks she had had. "I was hoping you would show up."

"Agent Hill," Beatrice stammered in reply, completely flabbergasted. "I thought you were still injured."

"Oh, believe me, I am," Hill told her with a dry laugh. "But I've been worse, and I wasn't going to let Rumlow ruin this party for me. Not when I spent half a day picking out this dress."

Beatrice could do nothing but blink stupidly in reply. Was Hill legitimately so accustomed to danger that she was able to shrug off a potentially fatal situation as if it was a daily occurrence? She didn't think she would ever be able to sound so nonchalant.

While she struggled to wrap her mind around the concept, Hill turned to her companion. "This is Colonel James Rhodes," she said; Beatrice took the man's proffered hand, still slightly stunned.

He flashed a wide, charming smile at her that made her feel instantly at ease. "Also known as War Machine. You might have heard of me."

"Tony's best friend?" Beatrice guessed. Rhodes grinned and took a sip of his drink.

"Unfortunately. His reputation tends to precede him. He'd tell you my job is to clean up his messes, but I only stick around for the entertainment."

"What about Pepper?" she questioned.

Rhodes laughed.

"Pepper, clean up Tony's messes? She'd make him scrub the tower's floor on his hands and knees while she watched. And he'd gladly do it for her."

While he regaled Beatrice and Hill with a tale involving the couple's most recent Christmas and a gigantic stuffed rabbit, she barely noticed two more people had joined them. It was only when she heard a familiar laugh that she whirled around and saw Sam Wilson, grinning from ear to ear.

"Sam!" she exclaimed in delight, glad to see a friendly face. "What are you doing here?"

"Steve invited me," he replied, shaking his head in disbelief as he ignored her extended hand to pull her in for a hug instead. "I couldn't pass up a chance to attend one of Tony Stark's parties."

While Hill introduced him to Rhodes, Beatrice had no choice but to turn to Natasha, who was standing at his side. She wore a short black dress that flared out at the waist and her lips were an even brighter red than usual; her pale skin seemed almost to glow in the dim light. She casually twirled a drink in one hand.

"I wasn't sure Steve would be able to talk you into being here tonight," she remarked to Beatrice, her green gaze glittering as she met the shorter woman's eyes. "He's not exactly Casanova."

"No kidding," Beatrice said dryly, thinking of his numerous fumbling attempts to flirt with Peggy Carter.

"He is a good kisser, though," Natasha muttered, almost grudgingly. The flicker of a grin crossed her face at Beatrice's dumbstruck expression. "Relax, it was a life-or-death situation. We were being followed and I needed to create a distraction." She placed her drink on the table and surveyed Beatrice's attire. "Anyway, what made you decide to show up? I admit I would've lost that bet."

"I was…curious about twenty-first century parties," Beatrice admitted, suddenly uncomfortable under her stare. Her mind was still reeling from the idea of Steve kissing her niece. An unpleasant emotion began to churn in her stomach, but she quickly forced it back down.

Natasha raised one eyebrow. "And?"

Beatrice shrugged, casting a glance at the relatively calm atmosphere surrounding them. She almost longed for a drink herself. "So far, nothing too different. The music and clothes have changed, but that's about it. Not as much dancing." Suddenly feeling suffocated by the overwhelming awkwardness that she was sure was radiating from her, Beatrice scrambled for something else, something meaningful, to say. "Agent Barton seems...much better."

The red-haired woman nodded and took a sip from her drink. "He was only out for a couple of hours. Dr. Cho was able to see him as soon as we got back here."

"Dr. Cho?"

"She's a friend of Stark's, a Korean geneticist." Natasha indicated a slim, dark-haired woman sitting on a nearby couch talking to Bruce. "She specializes in cellular regeneration."

"What's that?" Beatrice asked curiously.

"No idea," Natasha said with a shrug, deftly reaching across Sam to pour herself another drink from a nearby bottle. "You'll have to ask her."

Now that her attempts at conversation had fizzled out entirely, Beatrice was left with no choice but to speak her mind to the only other person who knew everything about her family. "Listen, Natasha…I'm sure Steve told you that Rumlow took the letters you gave me," she began hesitantly.

The spy's face changed at once; a blank mask replaced her politely interested expression so quickly it was difficult to believe it had changed at all. "Let's go over here, shall we?" Natasha asked smoothly, loud enough so the others could deduce they didn't want to be disturbed, and led Beatrice away from the group without waiting for an answer. There was an unoccupied spot near the alcove under one of the windows, and Natasha stopped beside it, her back to the window so she could look out into the room. The spire of the Chrysler Building across the street looked strangely otherworldly behind her, bathed in neon light. The music had softened to the more even, soothing tempo of jazz. Beatrice cast around for Steve in desperation, but he was joking with Thor and a larger group of veterans.

"Henry wanted you to give them to me, didn't he?" she asked, figuring Natasha would prefer being spoken to directly rather than skirting around the matter any longer.

Natasha's expression didn't change. "Yes."

"How am I supposed to tell him that they're gone?" Beatrice asked in dismay, fighting to keep her voice down. "He kept them safe for years and now, because I was stupid enough to think I could go after Rumlow—"

"So don't tell him," Natasha said bluntly. "He understands the need for secrets, Beatrice."

It was one of the only times she had said her name out loud, and Beatrice fought to hide the surprise that crossed her face, though she was certain Natasha saw it anyway. "But Henry is my brother," she tried to protest.

"And he's my father," Natasha said decisively. Seeing Beatrice's expression, she sighed almost imperceptibly and shook her head. Her earrings danced around her face, catching the light so that they looked like sparkling diamonds. "Look, I've known him for ten years. He would probably try and hunt down Rumlow by himself. And speaking as someone who used to work with Rumlow, I can tell you he couldn't care less about the letters. He'll just use them as a means of getting you to do what he wants. As unreliable as he can be, Stark will eventually find him."

Beatrice couldn't help it: the retort burst out of her mouth in a tone far more bitter than she'd intended. "Like he found Bucky, you mean?"

She wasn't sure how she expected Natasha to react, but the other woman just regarded her coolly and raised her drink to her lips before calmly saying, "If I were you, I would be wondering  _why_ Barnes even went to Switzerland in the first place."

* * *

Beatrice excused herself from the party just as the first guests were beginning to leave, citing a need to sleep off her headache. In truth, she  _was_ still exhausted from her encounter with Crossbones, though it was more mental than physical. Steve had invited her to the afterparty, which would only include the Avengers plus Hill, Rhodes, and the Korean doctor, Helen Cho, but Beatrice had politely declined. In truth, she just wanted time alone with her thoughts, time to process all that had happened since J.A.R.V.I.S. had been disabled. For as vast as the tower was, it was rare to find yourself alone.

But when she got to her room, she found she didn't even have the energy to change out of her dress. Steve had left his leather jacket lying across the chaise longue, and after ridiculously glancing behind her, as if anyone else would see her, Beatrice slipped her arms into it. It was far too large and hung awkwardly off her, but it provided warmth in the suddenly cold room. She finally slumped cross-legged on the chaise longue, hugging the pillow to her and staring at her reflection in the dark television screen mounted on the wall opposite. Her eyelids were heavy with a dull tiredness, but every time she closed them the only things she saw were two children running around a grassy park and Bucky's breath warm on her skin.

Almost absent-mindedly, instinctively, Beatrice extended her hand to the lamp beside her, curling her fingers toward her in an attempt at a pulling motion. Its base tilted slightly in her direction but didn't move.

Intrigued by this new discovery, Beatrice channelled all of the Tesseract's energy into her fingers, scattering it out into the air surrounding her before directing it to the lamp. Its bulb suddenly flickered on and it came flying toward a surprised Beatrice, who stared down at it in her hands as if she didn't quite believe what she had just seen was real. At times the hum of energy that constantly pulsed in the back of her eyes was distracting and unpleasant, but now it felt  _warm,_  like a helpful friend or a pet she'd finally learned to control.

She turned her attention to the nightstand itself and was almost disappointed when she came across resistance.  _But it's heavier,_ she told herself before trying again—imagining what she had done to the lamppost in Hell's Kitchen the last time she'd used her powers—her hand began to shake—

And then an ear-splitting crash from above her broke the spell, and Beatrice was jolted back to reality, her arm still stretching out, inches from the top of the nightstand. She paused in surprise and concern, and flinched when it happened again, this time accompanied by the shattering of glass and a thump like something heavy had been thrown to the floor. She jumped to her feet, alarmed.

At the same moment, her cell phone vibrated with an urgent buzz. Beatrice immediately leapt away from it, as if she thought it would explode, before realizing that someone had just tried to get in contact with her. She took a hesitant step forward to read the message flashing on the screen, one which was accompanied by Steve's name:

_Stay where you are._


	51. LI

"Let me get this straight," Beatrice said, crossing her arms and staring directly at Tony, who was standing amidst the broken tables and shattered glass of the party deck with an unreadable look on his face. "You and Dr. Banner tried to use the scepter to create some sort of robot that would take the place of the Avengers, but it somehow turned evil instead  _and_ took the scepter with it? And you don't know where it went?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Tony kicked aside a cracked vase, water seeping in long lines across the floor, and mirrored her crossed arms, his jaw tight and his dark eyes boring into hers. "Look, Ultron was meant to be a peacekeeping program. He could do the things we couldn't. We wouldn't need to rebuild a warehouse in Hell's Kitchen because some rogue Hydra agent blew it up. We wouldn't  _need_  to worry about the tower being compromised in the first place."

Beatrice thought back to their conversation earlier in the day, and the volition in Tony's voice as he'd told her that he would do whatever it took to keep the world safe. She had been unsettled by his fervency even then. "Clearly something went wrong in the process, then," she said, glancing at the wreckage surrounding them.

There was a snort from the couches, where Clint was perched atop one's overturned legs. "No shit," he scoffed. "You seriously thought screwing around with that scepter would be a smart thing, Stark? After what it did—" But he violently cut himself off, shaking his head in evident frustration. Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw Natasha's hand move to his knee.

"We can play this blame game all night, boys, but in the end it's just a waste of time," she announced, a sigh heavy in her words. "J.A.R.V.I.S. is gone again and Ultron has the scepter. That should be our only focus."

"She's right," Bruce pointed out, though his feeble attempt at diverting attention from Tony was more than transparent. "But we have no idea where he went or what he's planning to do with the scepter. We have no idea what he's planning to do, period."

"Would that I could, I would speak to Loki and ask him for more information on the scepter's properties," Thor said, his red cape swishing around him as he strode into the center of the gathered group. Everyone's eyes were instantly drawn to him, including Beatrice's; it was difficult to look away from such a commanding, awe-inspiring figure. "But as it is, I can contact Erik Selvig and see if he knows anything more."

"But who knows how long that'll take?" Hill asked, pausing from the painstaking work of removing the shards of glass that were embedded in her bare feet. "We already know Ultron can do a lot of damage without it."

"He said he wanted us extinct." Steve, who had been unusually quiet during the discussion, finally spoke up from his place standing next to Beatrice. "He'll give us a sign. Until then, our main priority should be finding him, scepter or not."

"Agreed," said Tony with a firm nod of his head. "I'll look for a backup interface to run scans of the area and get Dum-E to clean this place up in the meantime."

This seemed to signal the end of the conversation; he turned away and swept a pile of glass off a nearby table with his bare hands. Beatrice almost felt sorry for him. None of the team moved to help him, not even Bruce, who fiddled with his glasses and ran a hand through his curly hair. The defeat in the two men was palpable, though Beatrice suspected Tony shouldered most of the blame. Ultron had been his idea, after all.

She heard Hill give a sharp intake of breath, and Beatrice immediately moved to help her, but Rhodes and Dr. Cho were already there. She faltered, fighting against her nurse's instincts, her hands going into her pockets and clenching into fists there. Thor had disappeared—Beatrice hadn't even seen him leave—and Natasha and Clint were speaking in low voices away from the rest of the group. Beatrice glanced up at Steve, wanting to ask him what they should do, but before she could speak, he strode away toward the door. She cast around to see if anyone had noticed, but they all appeared to be too occupied in their own activities to notice either of them. So she quickly darted after Steve, out of the lounge and into the quieter hallway.

He turned to look at her as she approached; a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth but his eyes stayed serious. "Sorry, Beatrice," he said as he pressed the button for the elevator. "I didn't mean to leave like that. I was just…preoccupied."

He dragged his hand over his face as the doors slid open and they stepped inside; Beatrice found herself in the elevator with him for the second time that evening. "It's fine," she said quietly. "I'd be preoccupied too if I were you."

There was a peculiar gnawing sensation in her chest, an emptiness where there shouldn't have been. She swallowed and turned her face to the silver doors, blinking rapidly at her own reflection. Pressure gathered on the backs of her eyes, and her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she forced herself not to cry.

"Hey," Steve said softly, and she inadvertently glanced up at him. He had noticed her fighting back tears; of course he had. "It'll be okay. You're not in danger."

"It's not me I'm worried about," Beatrice mumbled. How could she possibly explain to him without sounding horribly selfish that she didn't want to lose him, too? She was barely holding on by a thread as it was; how could she be expected to be cast adrift and still float?

With a ding, the elevator announced that they had arrived at his floor, but Steve didn't make any move to get out. "You know, I was thinking of making hot chocolate," he said with a lopsided grin. "Unfortunately I don't have vodka to add to it, but do you want some?"

* * *

Steve's suite was ostensibly the largest one on the entire floor, but was nearly as void of personal touches as Beatrice's was, with the furniture looking barely used and the place spotless, unlike his messy apartment in Flatbush. A bookshelf stood in place of a television, and the portrait of Joseph Rogers that had once hung in the tenement was now above the mantle, though the fireplace, too, looked untouched. She didn't even see his sketchbook; the absence of such a simple object somehow bothered her more than she could explain.

Steve went into the kitchen to prepare the drinks while Beatrice sat on one end of the couch and let her hair down, quickly running her fingers through it to get rid of any knots. When she looked up again, Steve was watching her with a slightly wistful expression.

"That reminds me of my mother's dress you wore the first Christmas we met," he remarked as he stirred the drinks. "It suits you."

Beatrice smiled, embarrassed by the compliment. She suddenly wasn't sure where to look, and settled for a spot just above his head. "You don't look so bad yourself," she replied, gesturing lamely in his direction.

Steve looked almost as self-conscious as her as he came over to place a steaming mug in her hands before taking a seat on the other end of the couch. "You'll have to thank Natasha for that. She suggested that I wear something more modern tonight."

Beatrice shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she remembered what Natasha had said during the party. "You know," she began, trying to keep her tone light, "She told me that you were a good kisser."

Steve, who had been in the middle of taking a sip of his drink, suddenly started to choke, reaching up to wipe his mouth.  _"What?"_ he spluttered.

Beatrice tried her hardest not to sound accusatory. "I'd imagine it's difficult to impress her."

"We were on a mission," Steve protested. "It wasn't my idea. Natasha has a…unique sense of humor, that's all."

"It's not me you'll need to answer to if Henry finds out," Beatrice said, half-jokingly, because she had no idea how her brother would react to such a thing. He clearly held a great deal of respect for Steve, but hadn't he also said he thought Clint was good for Natasha? And why was she still thinking about this? It was a throwaway comment—it was none of her business who Steve kissed.

"Beatrice, I swear it wasn't like that," Steve argued, with surprising volition. "Believe me, Tony would have said something if it was."

Beatrice was beginning to regret bringing the matter up at all. Taking a drink of the scalding hot chocolate while she scrambled for something else to say, her eyes landed on the coffee table in front of the couch, its dark wood gleaming slightly in the light. It was worlds apart from the scuffed, three-legged table in Steve's old apartment that had had books propping it up. "Do you still play chess?" she asked, nodding at the table.

He looked slightly confused by her abrupt change of topic, but thankfully recovered quickly. "Not really. I've been too busy lately, but even if I had the time I wouldn't have anyone to play against."

Beatrice thought of the late nights spent watching Steve and Bucky play, sitting cross-legged on a couch far less comfortable than this one, keeping a tally of points and laughing at Bucky's increasingly creative insults as Steve continued to win. When she spoke again the longing in her voice was unadulterated. "I wish we could go back, Steve."

She wasn't just talking about chess anymore, but of the entire life they had given up, as humble as it had been. She missed bicycling down to the factory and reading while Steve sketched and visiting Ivan and laughing with Angie and Bucky's arms around her at the smoky dance hall. She sometimes imagined she could still taste the Coke they had shared on her tongue, and refused to drink it again lest it spoil the memory.

"Yeah," Steve said ruefully; she guessed he was thinking along the same lines as her. He offered her a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Me too. But the world needs us. Maybe now more than ever."

Beatrice looked at him skeptically. "I'm not talking about Captain America," she said quietly. "I'm talking about Steve Rogers."

He gave a short, humorless laugh, and there was a definite tone of bitterness in his voice as he replied, "Is there even a difference anymore?"

She was momentarily taken aback by the resentment in his words, but she didn't have time to react before he stood up and went over to the sink to wash out his mug. Beatrice watched him wordlessly, caught between not knowing if she should speak or stay silent. Knowing Steve as she did, he was sure to be regretting his outburst already. He was still so determined not to show any signs of weakness, not to falter from the path he had chosen. She wished she knew the other Avengers well enough to know if they were the same way, or if it was a trait unique to Steve.

"You know," she finally said after he rounded the corner to join her again, "I'm no expert on heroes, but I'd wager even they should have a break every now and then."

Steve paused; she saw his gaze flicker to where his shield proudly rested against the wall. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders forward. Beatrice recognized it immediately: it was a posture he had often adopted before the serum when he wished to make himself appear smaller than he already was, but the gesture wasn't quite as effective now. "The problem is, we can't exactly afford to take breaks," he said ruefully. "Especially not after tonight."

It was the first time he had directly addressed the Ultron situation since they'd been in the elevator. Beatrice tensed, watching him closely. The dim light leaking inside from the half-open blinds cast his face in shadow. "Are you angry at Tony?" she asked.

Steve sighed; all the fight seemed to go out of him as he moved to close the curtains. "No," he admitted reluctantly. "We should have seen it coming, paid more attention to his fixation on the scepter. It's just like him to think he can solve everything with technology. I'm more upset that he kept his plans for Ultron from us. If I can't trust the team, who can I trust? S.H.I.E.L.D. already let me down once."

"You can trust me," Beatrice said gently.

Steve looked over at her and she saw him smile as he walked back over to the couch. "I do," he told her. "But something tells me you would let me know if you were planning to build a genocidal robot."

"In Stark's defense, I don't think he intended for it to be genocidal," Beatrice pointed out, and Steve laughed quietly, the tension momentarily broken. But it wasn't long before something else tugged at Beatrice's mind, something she knew was illogical but wouldn't leave her alone.

"Steve, I—I was wondering," she began haltingly, "Something went wrong with the scepter. If it's—if it's related to the Tesseract, and the Tesseract is inside  _me,_  does that mean I'm going to turn into a monster, too?"

He immediately came over to sit on the couch beside her. His blue eyes were bright as he said very firmly, "We don't know the exact nature of the connection between the Tesseract and the scepter. Ultron is a machine—he was never human. Besides, you could never be a monster, Beatrice."

She nodded stiffly, believing his words in spite of herself. Steve had a way of speaking that made it impossible to doubt him. "So you're going to find Ultron, then?" she asked, daring to meet his eyes again. He was close enough that she suddenly had the urge to rest her head on his shoulder and take some comfort in the fact that she wasn't alone.

He hesitated before answering, but Beatrice knew what he was going to say anyway. "That's the plan. Depending on what Tony and Bruce find, we'll probably leave early tomorrow morning."

She swirled the remaining liquid in her mug around and bit her lip. "What's going to happen to me?"

"That's up to you," Steve said. "For what it's worth, I don't think the tower is safe anymore."

Beatrice privately agreed with him, but even so, part of her didn't want to leave Avengers Tower just as she was beginning to feel comfortable in it. Still, there were things she knew she had to do that didn't involve staring out the window and waiting for Steve to return—the first time she'd tried that hadn't ended so well. "I'd like to go to Washington again," she confessed. "To see Henry."

Steve looked relieved, as if he had been about to suggest exactly that. "That'll work out," he remarked, nodding. "You can stay at Sam's place. I'm sure he won't mind."

"I don't want to bother him," Beatrice said quickly, embarrassed at the thought of asking Sam for even  _more_  help. "I can stay at a hotel instead."

Steve raised his eyebrows, correctly guessing her reservations. "Whatever you choose to do, I'll need the two of you to be in regular contact."

"Why?"

A dry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he replied, "You're in charge of finding Bucky while I'm gone."


	52. LII

Beatrice woke up to the sound of running water, and sleepily raised her head to see the room bathed in soft, early-morning light. She was lying on Steve's sofa, the dark gray blanket that had been folded over its arm now covering her. She didn't even remember falling asleep; she must have been more exhausted than she'd thought.

Steve had often done this when they'd lived together, Beatrice thought as she sat up and stretched. She'd always been prone to falling asleep in his armchair while reading or listening to the radio, only to wake up the next morning with a blanket over her. She wondered if he had been reminded of it, too.

The window over by the bookshelf was cracked open again to let in fresh air, the curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze, but the noise of the city was muffled from this height. Beatrice felt a peculiar sense of peace she hadn't had in ages—at least until she remembered Ultron and Steve's remark that Avengers Tower likely wasn't safe anymore.

It took her another moment to realize that the sound of running water was a shower and that Steve must be getting ready to leave. She took a shaky breath and stood up, casting a surreptitious glance at the bathroom door. Could she hurry back to her own suite before he came out? He'd always liked long baths from what she could recall, but she didn't know how long he'd been in there. Maybe once upon a time she would have knocked on the door and asked, but that had been the  _old_  Steve, hers and Bucky's Steve, not  _Captain America,_  the man Beatrice wasn't at all certain she recognized anymore. She had never felt entirely comfortable around Steve after he'd turned into a super-soldier, and sometimes she thought he had noticed it.

But the decision was made for her by a short, sharp knock at the front door. Beatrice cast another quick glance in the direction of the bathroom before hurrying over to the door and opening it a crack, expecting to see Tony or even Natasha. But she was met with Agent Hill instead, looking as stern and professional as ever. If she was surprised to see Beatrice, she didn't show it.

"Captain Rogers wouldn't happen to be awake yet, would he?" she asked, though Beatrice was sure she was just standing on formalities: anyone who had known Steve for more than half a day could guess that he wasn't the type to sleep in past dawn.

"Yeah, he's just in the, um, he's just getting ready," Beatrice said, gesturing lamely to the empty suite behind her. She was dimly confused by the agent's sudden brusqueness; she could have sworn Hill had called him  _Steve_ during the party. Then again, they were no longer at a party, and were potentially in a very dangerous situation. "He shouldn't be too much longer."

In that moment she began to wonder if there might just be a deity after all, for just as she finished speaking the door to the bathroom opened and Steve himself appeared, his hair damp and a towel thrown loosely over his shoulders. Seeing that Beatrice was talking to Hill, he strode over to the two women at once. "Any news?" he asked; he was suddenly  _Captain_ again, any trace of Beatrice's best friend that she had seen the previous night instantly disappearing.

Hill didn't even blink. "You're needed upstairs," she told him. "There's something you ought to see."

Steve nodded once, grimly, and turned to Beatrice. "Sounds like that's my cue," he said, with a slightly self-deprecating grin, tossing his towel onto the back of the nearest chair. "Are you coming?"

She looked down at her wrinkled dress and tried in vain to smooth it out. "I'll meet you there later," she said, more than a bit reluctantly. "I don't want to keep you waiting."

"We'll be in the archives," said Hill, turning to leave. Steve smiled at her as he passed and whispered, "I hope the couch was comfortable enough. I didn't want to wake you up." She started, surprised, and hoped Hill hadn't heard him.

But when the brunette turned back to look at Beatrice, she remarked, "You did well in Hell's Kitchen, by the way. Especially for someone who hasn't had any training."

"Really?" Beatrice asked in mild astonishment. "But we didn't catch Rumlow."

A tiny smirk appeared on Hill's face. "Hartley, it's successful if we both made it out alive and in one piece."

* * *

It was midmorning by the time Beatrice had showered and changed into more comfortable clothes. For some reason, knowing that she was the only one on the floor made her feel nervous instead of providing her with the solitude she had desired only a week beforehand, and so she didn't even bother curling her hair before tying it back and beginning to pack all of her possessions into a purse, which took less than five minutes. Straightening up, Beatrice surveyed the rooms that had served as her temporary home at Avengers Tower—a small part of her would miss it, she realized, and hoped she would see it again someday.  _You don't have to leave,_ Steve's words echoed in her ears again, but Beatrice quickly shook her head of the thoughts. Staying here wouldn't bring her any closer to finding Bucky—no matter what Tony Stark bragged he could do—not to mention she would be right in the line of fire if Ultron decided to return. Maybe she  _could_ move certain objects with her mind, but she was far from being able to take on a homicidal robot.

Beatrice rubbed her temples again as she reflected on what a mess the future was, slinging her purse over her shoulder. No matter how familiar New York looked, this would never be  _home._ The thought put a lump in her throat.

Across the room, in the pocket of her cardigan, her cell phone erupted with a shrill ring. Beatrice jumped, but quickly recovered herself and hurried to retrieve it. Steve had showed her how to use it the previous night before she'd fallen asleep, and though Beatrice still wasn't quite used to the idea of being able to contact anyone, anywhere in the world at the touch of a button, it still wasn't the most baffling thing she had encountered in the tower.

Speaking of Steve, she hoped he wasn't trying to contact her to instruct her to stay in her suite like he had during Ultron's attack. Beatrice had been torn between hiding and running out to help them anyway, but luckily Steve had shown up before she'd had to make a decision. She was smart enough to understand that she was in way over her head. Hydra was one thing; potentially magical, dangerous alien entities were entirely another, though the two unfortunately overlapped more than she wanted them to.

To her mild relief, however, the caller wasn't Steve at all, though it was an equally familiar name. Beatrice almost addressed the operator before remembering where she was and instead asked, "Sam?"

"Hey, Beatrice." The voice that greeted her was friendly but cautious. "Steve told me what happened last night after I left. Wish I'd been there to help."

Beatrice tightened her grip on the phone and, after glancing around the suite one last time, turned off the lights and slipped quietly into the hallway, feeling less alone now that she was talking to Sam. "It looked like it was something, all right," she said, hoping she sounded better than she felt.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, but he sounded wistful, as if he regretted missing the opportunity to fight. "He said the tower's probably compromised and mentioned that you want to go back to Washington."

"It's the only place I  _can_ go," Beatrice admitted as she pressed the button for the elevator. "I don't have many options at the moment."

"Good thing I have a spare bedroom, then," Sam said cheerfully.

Beatrice tried to protest, but he wasn't having any of it. "Come on. I'll show you what rock and roll is. There are some amazing bands you gotta listen to."

She sighed, but smiled despite herself. "Fine. I promise I'll pay you back somehow, Sam."

"No problem—my train leaves at noon today. Meet you at Penn Station? I'll pick up a ticket for you."

After arranging to meet at exactly half-past eleven, Beatrice ended the call feeling slightly more optimistic. That didn't last long, however, as she stepped out of the elevator into the archives, an office-sized space lit with low-hanging lamps that gave the illusion of being underground. Beatrice noticed a vintage Captain America poster framed on the wall, and bit back a smirk.

The tables were stacked with what seemed like hundreds of boxes, loose files and stray documents scattered around the room. The Avengers, however, were gathered around a computer, where Bruce sat staring intently at the screen, its bright glow reflecting on his glasses. Natasha was the first to notice her arrival; she stepped forward and handed Beatrice a rectangular tablet. "This happened early this morning."

Beatrice blinked down at it; it took her a moment before she registered what she saw, and then another before the horror kicked in. A man lay slumped, obviously dead, against the rotting wall of a jail cell. Scrawled next to his head in dripping blood was the single word  _PEACE._

Beatrice glanced up at the others, but her gaze lingered on Steve, the lines of his face tight with worry. "Is this Strucker?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Ultron sent us a message," Tony said, tight-lipped; there was no humor in his eyes now. "Didn't take him very long."

"The letters are fresh, but the blood around his wound is darker, meaning it's had time to dry," Beatrice remarked, almost to herself, as she studied the picture. "To oxidize."

"Then we'd better get moving," Clint announced grimly, turning away from the others to make his way to the door. "I'll get the quinjet ready."

Beatrice moved past Thor and Bruce, who were deep in conversation over one of the files, to stand beside Steve. "Where are you going?" she asked quietly.

"Johannesburg," he told her. "Well, along the coast at any rate."

"South Africa?"

"Yeah," Steve replied, rubbing the back of his neck in what she recognized as agitation. "Banner figured that Ultron killed Strucker because he knew something Ultron didn't want us to see. So we've been going through his files and saw that Hydra's been dealing in the black market for vibranium."

"Vibranium," Beatrice replied flatly, although her heart was suddenly beating very fast. "Like your shield."  _And Bucky's arm._

Steve nodded, and she knew the same thought had gone through his head. "We narrowed down Strucker's contacts to a man named Ulysses Klaue who was caught smuggling vibranium out of Wakanda a few years ago. Tony thinks Ultron might be looking for an upgrade."

Beatrice took a deep breath. Vibranium was nearly indestructible. If Ultron was made out of the stuff, he would become almost unstoppable. Again she remembered the flash of gleaming metal she had once seen in the Norn Stone. "So you're going to try to intercept him," she realized.

"Hopefully we'll be able to stop this before it starts." But Steve didn't sound convinced, and neither was Beatrice. She could do nothing but try to swallow down her panic and pray that he would come out unscathed. The Avengers had saved the world once, she tried to reason with herself. They could surely do it again, right?

"It is unfortunate that you cannot join us, Miss Hartley." A deep, rumbling voice sounded from behind her, and Beatrice turned around to see Thor watching her. Although he was now dressed less conspicuously, there was something unmistakably otherworldly about him—straight out of the fairy tales Beatrice's mother had once told her. "I suspect your abilities would be an asset to us."

Beatrice felt Steve looking at her, but she kept her gaze on Thor as she rubbed her hands together awkwardly. "If I'm being honest," she admitted, "I try not to think about them too much."

* * *

Raindrops streaked against the windows of the train, racing each other down the glass. Beatrice rested her head against the cool window and watched the cities and towns flash by, interspersed with forests and farmland. Every so often she checked her phone to see if Steve had sent a message. He'd promised to let her know when they arrived in Africa, but Beatrice was unwilling to admit that she already missed him. Steve, who was her only anchor in this brave new world. He, at least, was familiar.

Sam had told her that it was a three-hour train ride to Washington, but to Beatrice it felt as if they had been traveling for an entire day. They'd been served lunch during the stop in Philadelphia, which more or less marked the halfway point, but Beatrice was already feeling hungry again—or perhaps that was because she hadn't had breakfast. At any rate, she was beginning to feel more than a bit claustrophobic in the cramped quarters, and was grateful that Sam had offered her the window seat. He was reading the newspaper now, flipping through the international section. Beatrice noticed him lingering on the mention of an unsolved triple homicide in Geneva. Her hands tightened on the armrests.

"Any new leads?" she asked quietly. Sam shook his head and folded up the paper before sliding it into the pocket of the seat in front of him.

"Nothing," he replied; Beatrice felt mingled relief and disappointment. "Wherever Barnes is, he doesn't want to be found."

She fidgeted uncomfortably and stared down at her knees. "I'm beginning to think that, too," she confessed. "But Steve seems convinced that he'll eventually come back. I want to believe him." The silent  _but_ dangled almost audibly in the air between them.

"Steve has a different perspective than most people," Sam said wisely, a grin in his voice. "Once he sets his mind to something, he doesn't give up. It's no surprise he's even more stubborn about Barnes." He raised his eyebrows. "And now he has you."

"What?"

"You're the only thing he has left from his past. Barnes lost his memories, most of his old war buddies are dead, and last I heard Agent Carter wasn't doing so well." Sam sounded authoritative but compassionate, like a teacher gently prodding a lost student in the right direction. "He's definitely happier now that you're here. Kinda worried about  _you_ adjusting, though."

Beatrice suddenly felt even guiltier for all of the times she'd snuck out to Central Park. "Did he tell you that?" she asked.

"Not in as many words," Sam said, and flashed a bright grin at her. "Just keep it in mind. Man, never thought I'd be Captain America's psychologist someday."

Beatrice laughed under her breath. "Thank you for doing this, Sam," she said fervently. "For helping him— _us."_

"Hey, don't thank me," he replied cheerfully. "It does come with some pretty sweet perks."

"Like being invited to one of Tony Stark's parties?"

"I'll admit I can't think of many things cooler than that."

With the mood suddenly lightened, Beatrice felt it appropriate to ask, "Why didn't you stay at the tower? It has plenty of room."

Sam shrugged. "Steve offered, but I stayed with my mom instead. I wasn't gonna come up to the city and not visit her."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "Are you from New York, then?"

"Harlem born and raised," Sam announced proudly. "I moved to D.C. after I left the army."

"But you like it there?"

"Sure. I got my own place, it's quieter—used to be safer, too." He was looking past Beatrice, out the window, and she followed his gaze to see, with a start, the skeleton of what must have once been the Triskelion in the distance, the towering ruins of an obviously destroyed building visible through the pouring rain. They were crossing over a railway bridge, and Beatrice guessed the river underneath was the Potomac, where Bucky had pulled Steve out of the water and saved his life. She stared at its dark gray depths as if it would somehow show her the answers she so desperately wanted.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam asked, noticing her silence. She quickly scrambled for something to say.

"Yeah. Just thinking that the last time I was on a train, it didn't go so well," Beatrice said as dryly as she could.

Sam laughed and shook his head. "You sound like Steve sometimes, you know that? Or he sounds like you."

Beatrice grinned. "I'll be sure to tell him that."

* * *

Sam lived at the end of a long row of townhouses, not far from Capitol Hill. Beatrice warmed up to it much quicker than she had warmed up to Avengers Tower, not least because it actually felt like a house that had been lived in. The walls were painted bright, cheerful colors—Beatrice wondered what had happened to perfectly good wallpaper—and were decorated with framed pictures from his time in the army. It was new, free of any painful memories the tower or New York held, and she was able to cautiously relax. Sam ordered pizza for dinner and insisted she watch at least one movie. Beatrice knew he was trying to take her mind off the situation, and she was grateful for it.

She went to bed early but couldn't sleep, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling of the spare bedroom. Sam had asked if she wanted to accompany him to the VA the next day, but she'd politely declined, saying that she wanted to see Henry first. She'd already decided to take Natasha's advice and not tell her brother about losing the letters and nursing medals—to a Hydra agent, no less. She wasn't sure she could stand to see the look on his face if he ever found out.

Her cell phone buzzed from its place on the nightstand, and glad for a distraction, Beatrice rolled over and snatched it up, feeling a surge of relief when she saw that Steve had finally sent her a message:

_We're here. Tracked Klaue down to a freighter in a salvage yard._

She was quick to reply, her thumbs clumsily swiping at the letters as she typed:  _Is Ultron there?_

It seemed to take ages for Steve to respond, and Beatrice nearly leapt on the phone when it vibrated again:  _Don't know yet. Tony seems convinced that he is. How are you doing at Sam's? Isn't it after midnight there?_

_Pretty good, I guess. He made me watch a movie called Alien and now I can't sleep._

_Just don't let him show you The Exorcist._

The dryness in Steve's response was evident; Beatrice could imagine his voice as if he was actually in the room with her.  _I'll keep that in mind,_ she told him, equally dryly.

But all traces of humor disappeared at his next message, her heart beginning to pound:  _Gotta go – they're calling us out._

She agonized over how to respond for a long moment, her fingers hovering over the screen, before finally settling on,  _Good luck, Steve._

_Night, Bea. Don't worry about us._

But how could she  _not?_  She stared at the bright phone glowing in the dark room for what felt like ages, but when no response was forthcoming she set it back down with a sigh and burrowed into the pillows.  _He'll be fine,_ she repeated to herself firmly, closing her eyes. They'll _be fine._

* * *

"It's not an easy life to lead."

Henry's tone, though light, was unmistakably tinged with bitterness as he told Beatrice about his time working for S.H.I.E.L.D., from his years in Russia to his retirement at the Triskelion. They must have been walking around the gardens for an hour now, Beatrice figured. She had taken Henry's arm, but her brother didn't seem tired in the least. The sky was gray with threatening rainclouds, the air heavy with humidity, but the downpour hadn't yet begun. There was a peculiar charged electricity in the air that Beatrice had always sensed before an impending storm—or maybe it was just a full moon.

"I'd imagine so," she replied slowly. "I saw the toll that working for the SSR took on Uncle Ivan."

"We had a saying back in Russia when I was a child," Henry continued, almost thoughtfully. "That during hard times, we must always sing through the darkness like the nightingale sings through the night. It was always Tatiana's favorite bird...but they are not native to the Americas. I would do anything to hear its song one more time."

Beatrice wondered if he had accidentally taken more of his medications than he should have that morning, but his eyes were focused and he seemed lucid enough. He was lost in memories, she realized, and her heart suddenly felt heavy.

As they passed the door to the retirement home, Beatrice glanced inside at the television to see if it had any news about the Avengers, but the top story was about a heist at Pym Technologies Headquarters in San Francisco, giving her only the tiniest modicum of relief. There had been no news from Steve since last night, and all she could tell herself was that no news was good news.

Henry was beginning to slow, so Beatrice gently guided him to a nearby bench. When they sat down he closed his wrinkled hand over her smooth, unlined one, his green eyes earnest. "Do you still have the Norn Stone?" he asked.

Beatrice nodded thickly past the lump in her throat. That, at least, she still had. "Do—do you want it back?"

Her brother laughed, shaking his head gently. "I have seen enough of life to be able to know people's thoughts without a stone to guide me. Humans are not such complicated creatures. No, what I meant to ask is has it revealed its visions to you?"

_A flash of red, white and blue. Light glinting off metal. Glowing crimson eyes. A city with skyscrapers as tall as the clouds. A ruined golden gauntlet. Steve and Bucky crouching, facing her, Bucky raising his gun—_

"Some of them," Beatrice confessed, hoping Henry hadn't noticed her lapse in concentration. Not for the first time, she wished that Natasha had been the one to inherit it instead of her.

"All will come true in time," Henry said sagely, but instead of his words comforting Beatrice, her sense of foreboding only grew.

* * *

She pulled the baseball cap low over her face as she trailed along behind a tour group on their way to the Captain America exhibit. Although she knew that there wouldn't be any photos of her here and even if there  _were,_  no one would think to make the connection, she felt silly all the same, as if she was a child playing dress-up.

She'd finally gone to the Smithsonian at Henry's urging, though admittedly her curiosity had been piqued long before then. Especially since she knew Bucky had been here. How much had he seen? How much had he remembered?

Beatrice ducked her head as she entered the exhibit, surrounded by groups of schoolchildren and elderly people who were probably old enough to remember the war themselves. A recording of an old radio broadcast played in the background as she examined a larger-than-life, faintly ridiculous cardboard cutout of Captain America solemnly saluting, his painted eyes staring into the distance, which was accompanied by a quote from the current president, Matthew Ellis. After Beatrice had completely suppressed the urge to laugh, she moved farther into the exhibit, her smile wiped away quickly by the sight of a picture of Steve before he had taken the serum, squinting awkwardly into the sun. Beatrice lingered at the display for longer than most of the guests, reading the scrolling screen that offered a basic summary of his life story before he had been recruited by the SSR. Nobody, she noticed, seemed to take much interest in his pre-army days, most of them giving the section a cursory glance before moving on to his transformation into a super soldier. When she caught sight of one of the security guards staring at her, she grudgingly headed to the next section, where she was met with a television screen on which an interview with Peggy Carter played. Beatrice couldn't miss the flash of emotion in the normally steely agent's dark eyes when she spoke of Steve's sacrifice, and she found that she couldn't watch the entire clip, ducking her head instead and staring at her feet.

She moved slowly through the exhibit, examining the replicas of Steve's various motorcycles and the outfits worn by the Howling Commandos—including Bucky's blue field jacket, the one he had been wearing when she had last seen him in 1944. Beatrice barely noticed that her sweaty fingers had torn a hole in her admission ticket until she moved to wipe a hand on her jeans and bits of paper fluttered out of her pocket. She bent to pick them up, turned around—and her eyes landed on him.

_Bucky._

No, not Bucky—it was just a picture of him, his steely eyes boring into the camera, the harsh lines of his face even more evident in the black-and-white photo. It must have been taken sometime after Zola's experimentation on him. Beatrice wasn't sure how long she just stood there, staring at him, until the words on his display began to blur and she found she couldn't breathe properly. She blindly rounded the corner, forcing herself to inhale as deeply as she could, and to her great relief found a quiet alcove with a cushioned bench.

Beatrice hadn't realized her knees were shaking until she sat down, and she raised her head, tuning out the distant chatter of the exhibit. It was impossible to look at anything with any measure of detachment, as if she hadn't already lived through it herself.

Her eyes caught on a small gold plaque mounted on the wall just across from her, on the other side of Bucky's display. The print was large enough that she could easily read it, a strange jolt going through her when she saw her own name:

_Beatrice Hartley (1920-1944) grew up in Brooklyn, New York alongside Steve Rogers, indeed being one of the few people closest to him before his transformation alongside her fiancé, Bucky Barnes. During the war, she served in the Army Nurse Corps for eighteen months, assigned to the 107th Field Hospital in the European Theater. She went missing in the Alps in December 1944, presumed to be on a rescue mission for Barnes. Her body was never found._

"You're the second person this month to notice that."

Beatrice whirled around to see a middle-aged woman approaching her, her nametag identifying her as a tour guide. "W—what?" she stammered.

"There was a man here a couple of weeks ago," the guide replied. "He was very scruffy-looking—I thought he was homeless at first. He just stood there and stared for about ten minutes. Wasn't with anyone else from what I could tell."

"Oh," Beatrice said faintly. Her heart was beating very fast. "It is…out of the way."

"I've been giving tours since this exhibit opened, and rumor has it Steve Rogers himself requested that her memorial be placed here," the other woman said, nodding at the plaque. "Those army nurses did a lot of work during the war, but the history books have forgotten them. The soldiers are brave indeed, but what about the nurses who healed them?"

"Maybe she didn't want an elaborate memorial," Beatrice said. "Beatrice Hartley, I mean."

The guide shrugged. "I suppose Captain Rogers did know her best. He must miss her and Sergeant Barnes terribly. Nurse Hartley was indeed as much of a hero as both of them." With that, she patted Beatrice on the shoulder and walked away, leaving the other woman staring open-mouthed after her.

* * *

Sam was already home by the time Beatrice found her way back from the Smithsonian after spending the better part of the afternoon trying to figure out the subway—but this time he wasn't alone. There was a woman with him, a striking dark-skinned brunette with a wide smile.

"Beatrice, this is Zoe. She works at the VA," Sam said when she entered, stepping forward to introduce them. "Zoe, this is Beatrice Hartley, Steve's friend."

"Nice to meet you," Beatrice said as she shook the other woman's hand; her grip was firm and self-assured. "I've heard a lot of great things about the VA."

"And I've heard a lot of good things about  _you,"_ Zoe commented, stepping back to look her up and down. "Has anyone ever told you that you have sad eyes?"

Beatrice was taken aback. "What?"

"Sweetie, you don't work where I do and not start to notice a pattern after a while. People who have seen war—they have a certain look in their eyes. Even if Sam didn't tell me who you were, I would have known you served at some point. Right, honey?" She grinned up at Sam, who had put an arm around her shoulders.

"Can't get anything past her," he said, with a matching smile. "Hey, we're going out to dinner at a new Italian place downtown. Want to join us?"

Beatrice looked back and forth between the two of them. It would ostensibly be a date. "No, thanks," she replied. "I've been out all day and I want to rest for a bit."

Neither of them could quite hide the looks of relief on their faces. "No problem," Sam said cheerily. "We'll bring you leftovers."

After bidding them goodbye, Beatrice flopped onto one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the clock ticking on the wall. Now that she was alone with nothing to occupy her thoughts, she suddenly regretted not taking them up on their offer.

Her phone rang shrilly on the table in front of her, and she was so startled by the sound that she picked it up without looking at the number. "Hello?"

"Beatrice." Steve sounded unusually exhausted; her name came out like a sigh.

"Steve!" she exclaimed in delight. "I was worried sick about you! Is everyone all right?"

He took a moment to respond, and she instantly knew something was very wrong. "Have you seen the news?"

"No," Beatrice said slowly. "What happened?"

"We found Ultron, but he was ready for us. He got away with Klaue's vibranium."

" _How?"_ she gasped, her mouth going dry.

"He's enlisted help," Steve told her; she had never heard such utter  _defeat_  in his voice, mixed with something Beatrice had a harder time identifying. "Strucker was experimenting on human subjects in Sokovia with the scepter before we destroyed the base. From what we know, there are only two survivors from the entire project. Wanda and Pietro Maximoff. The scepter gave them…abilities."

"So they're Enhanced? Like me?" Beatrice's head was spinning at this new information, and she had to press her palm against her forehead as if to slow down her racing thoughts.

"Yeah. They have a vendetta against Tony because a Stark Industries bomb killed their parents, and teaming up with Ultron is the best way to get revenge. They took us all down and Ultron escaped before we even knew what was happening. I've never seen anything like it, Beatrice. Pietro—he can move faster than the speed of sound. It's impossible to see him coming. And Wanda...I can't exactly explain what she does. She gives you visions, I guess. Hallucinations. I don't know what the others saw, but it shook everyone up pretty bad."

"Like the vision I saw in the scepter," Beatrice mused. She remembered how  _real_ everything had felt: the timbre of Bucky's voice, the precise gray of his eyes.

"Bruce turned into the Hulk and destroyed half of Johannesburg," Steve continued dully. "Tony managed to intervene, but by the time he could do anything it was too late to avoid any damage."

Beatrice's heart dropped. "Oh my God. Were there any fatalities?"

"I hope not," he said darkly. "Tony's sending in the Stark Relief Foundation. We won't know the extent of the damage for another couple of days."

"What about the rest of the team?" she asked, gripping the phone tightly.

"We're...not good," Steve admitted. "We can't get back to Avengers Tower. Clint says he's taking us to a safe house."

"So you don't know when you'll be back," Beatrice clarified. Her heart was thudding painfully against her chest.

He paused. "No."

"Do you have any idea where Ultron and the twins are now? I can try to take them on—"

"Beatrice, don't—don't get yourself caught in this." He sounded urgent, his voice suddenly taking on an air of desperation. "Stay in D.C. with Sam. We'll figure something out."

She hesitated before speaking again. "What did you see in your vision?"

"Peggy," he finally said after a long silence broken only by the faint crackling of the phone, and her heart dropped into her stomach again.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault.  _I'm_  sorry for doing this. I promise I'll be back as soon as possible." She could hear muffled talking in the background and an affirmation from Steve before his words became audible again. "Barton says we're almost there."

Beatrice squeezed her eyes tightly shut before opening them again, and with as much levity as she could muster, she told him, "Just hurry home, soldier. That's an order."

"Yes, ma'am." She could hear a tired smile in Steve's reply, and for the first time Beatrice understood what the strange tone was in his voice.

Fear.

As soon as the line was disconnected, Beatrice dropped her head into her hands. "This isn't good," she moaned.

"No, it isn't."

Beatrice's head immediately snapped up to see, of all people,  _Nick Fury_  standing at the entrance to the kitchen, with his telltale eyepatch and long, dark coat, shrouding him in darkness. She hadn't even heard him come in. "Director Fury!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. "What are you doing here? Does Sam know?"

"Nobody does," he said, taking a step forward. His one visible eye was fixed, unwavering, on her. "I decided to stop by on my way to Iowa."

_"Iowa?"_

"Believe me, it wasn't my first choice either." Fury raised his eyebrows. There were no greetings or pleasantries with him; he always jumped straight to the point, dismissing the superficial. "Have you ever been to Romania, Hartley?"

This entire day was fast turning into the realm of the surreal; Beatrice's head was still spinning. "No?" she said faintly, phrasing it like a question. How the _hell_  had he gotten into the house without her noticing? How had he even gotten  _inside_  in the first place? Sam was going to kill her.

"Then get packing, because you're about to be."

"I don't understand," Beatrice said, frustrated. Her fingers curled around her phone, as if she was preparing to throw it at him. "I can't leave D.C. Why are you sending me to Europe?"

Fury remained calm and composed as Beatrice grew more agitated; she had the feeling it would take much more than she was capable of to provoke any sort of reaction from him. "Because Rogers is currently busy trying to stop a psychopathic robot, and you're the next best person to find Barnes before Hydra does.  _Again."_


	53. LIII

Beatrice stared across the kitchen at Fury, shock and disbelief coursing through her like a punch to the gut. "Excuse me?" she demanded, sure that she had heard him wrong. "With all due respect, sir, is this some sort of joke?"

Fury's expression didn't change. "Do I look like I'm joking?" he retorted. He moved further into the room and sat down on one of Sam's chairs as casually as if he had been invited inside, leaning back and looking up at Beatrice. "Last time I saw you, Hartley, you were about ready to tear my head off if I didn't let you go after Barnes. Having second thoughts?"

She crossed her arms, both to give her hands something to do and to shield herself from his steely glare. "Of course not," Beatrice said, still stunned, "But now you want _me_ to find him? I don't understand—"

"He's already been found," Fury interrupted, as coolly as if they were talking about the weather. "We've been monitoring him for the past month. He's got himself an apartment in Bucharest, stayed under the radar. But that's about to change."

Beatrice's head was spinning. She dropped back into her own chair, still open-mouthed. "You've known where he was all along?" she asked, not caring if she sounded accusatory or not. " _How?_ Why didn't you tell Steve?"

"Rogers has more pressing matters at hand, wouldn't you agree?" countered Fury. "Look, Hydra placed a tracker in Barnes's arm, presumably so they would never lose their asset during a mission. It was never deactivated after the Triskelion incident, and I'm guessing there aren't any doctors who would care enough to come out of hiding just to find him. We wanted to make sure he was no longer a threat before telling you and Rogers."

Beatrice tried very hard to keep her voice level, to sound as calm as possible. She stared at Fury as if he was a mirage that could disappear at any instant. "You said that Tony Stark could help us find Bucky. Were you just lying about that to get us to go back to New York?"

Fury shrugged. "Technically, Stark did help," he said dismissively. "I was using his technology."

She clenched her jaw hard so that she wouldn't bite out a scathing response. None of her superiors had ever been this indifferent when speaking about serious matters. "But Hydra's found him, too?"

"Not quite Hydra," Fury replied. "After Strucker, there's not enough of them left to form any sort of organization, and those that are still here will likely bury their heads in the sand. We picked up one ex-Hydra agent who recently hacked into old S.H.I.E.L.D. databases in what seems to be an attempt to locate the tracker."

Beatrice was certain she knew exactly what he was going to say next, and wasn't disappointed when Fury continued, "His name is Brock Rumlow. Agent Hill tells me you've had a previous encounter with him."

"Yes," she reluctantly admitted, dropping her gaze to the smooth tabletop. Of course Hill had told him about what had happened in Hell's Kitchen. "It didn't end very well."

"Then this is your chance to change that," Fury told her, his voice losing some of its austerity. "I trust that you and Wilson are able to handle this. Whatever you do, keep eyes on Barnes and remove the tracker if you can. We don't want any more public incidents."

Beatrice nodded slowly, her mind already beginning to race with possibilities, jumping from conclusion to conclusion until she felt faintly dizzy. "What do you want me to tell Steve?"

"Nothing." Fury stared levelly at her, as if daring her to argue. "When it comes to dealing with more urgent threats, compartmentalization is the wisest choice."

" _Compartmentalization?"_ Beatrice echoed incredulously, her eyes widening. "Is that what this is? You don't want him to become distracted?"

"You've seen war, Nurse Hartley," Fury replied steadily. "Of all people, you should know how critical compartmentalization is. No use worrying about the soldiers on the front lines when you've got one bleeding out next to you." He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a retort, but Beatrice remained silent. "You and I both know that the moment Rogers gets wind of Barnes's location, he'll be off like a bat out of hell. We can't afford to do that right now, not with Ultron around. Look, he already trusts you and Wilson to handle this job, and more importantly, you've got the best chance out of anyone to calm Barnes down. Rumlow already has a death wish for Rogers; it's probably not a good idea to give him the opportunity."

With that, Fury settled back into his chair and coolly regarded Beatrice with the look of a man who knew he was right. He hadn't gotten to be the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. for nothing, and certainly had experience in convincing more difficult people than Beatrice. But she made sure her displeasure was evident in her tone as she said, "I suppose you don't want me to tell Bucky anything, either."

"I don't care what you do with Barnes. He's not the primary threat right now. Apprehend Rumlow no matter what. He poses the greatest threat to civilians." The former director of S.H.I.E.L.D. fixed her with a hard, unyielding stare. "And once he's out of the picture, Hartley, so is the rest of Hydra—and hopefully for good this time."

* * *

"That's all he said?"

They were thirty thousand feet above the ocean, sitting in an enormous commercial airliner, but Beatrice could still sense the heaving mass of dark water far below them. She tried her best to push out those thoughts and concentrate on Sam's words instead. "Yes, unfortunately," she groaned, rubbing her temples in frustration. The magazine lying open on her lap twitched, its pages fluttering as if an invisible wind had blown past it, but Beatrice didn't notice. "He just gave me an address and told me that Rumlow won't care about being seen."

Sam glanced down at the piece of paper Fury had given her, on which was presumably Bucky's address. "What if he's gotten there first?" he asked.

"Let's hope he hasn't," Beatrice said grimly. She nodded at the paper. "Do you know where that is?"

Sam twirled it around the tray table with his fingers, turning the letters into blurred smudges. "Looks like it's a flat in the Obor district, northeast of the city center. He probably got a room in one of the communist apartment blocks built in the sixties. They're cheap and nobody asks many questions. It's close to a metro station."

Beatrice nodded, pretending to look nonchalant. Of course Bucky would have thought all of this out, from the neighborhood to possible escape routes. Where had he gotten the money from, she wondered? Had he stolen it? Had he somehow gotten a job? Was he even there legally?

"You have any idea what he's even doing in Bucharest?" Sam asked. He sounded genuinely curious. "It wouldn't be my first choice if I wanted to get off the grid."

Beatrice anxiously drummed her fingers on her knee. They were speaking in low voices so as not to wake the other passengers, but she couldn't stop her voice from rising into a higher, more uncertain pitch. "I—I think so. Maybe. He wrote his last letter to me while the Howling Commandos were stationed there. But that's all I can think of. Maybe it's the location of a major Hydra base. Steve would know. But I can't tell him anything—Fury said not to—"

"Whoa, whoa, calm down," Sam interrupted before she could spiral into a panic attack. "It's gonna be fine, Beatrice. You know that, right?"

She blinked owlishly at him, surprised by his calm tone. He seemed more concerned about _her_ than the situation at hand. "No, I don't know that," she said truthfully. "I have no idea what I'm doing, and I can't ask Steve for advice. If it was him going to find Bucky, I'd want to help, even if I couldn't be there. I just—I don't want him to be angry at me when he finds out about this."

Sam looked unconvinced by her confession. "He's not going to be _angry,_ Beatrice, and if he was, it would be at Fury. He knows we're looking for Barnes."

"But he told me to stay in D.C."

"I'm sure he'd make an exception if he knew the circumstances. Besides, he'd have to agree that Ultron takes precedence over everything else right now, even if he doesn't like it." Sam shrugged. "I texted him saying that we wouldn't be in town for a little while. I think he can probably infer what that means."

Beatrice sighed, hating herself for doubting Steve, for doubting Sam, for doubting _herself._ Everything had happened so quickly, from Fury's appearance to Sam's return home to scrambling to catch the flight, that she hadn't had time to process anything. She hadn't had time to think about how she would approach Bucky, how she would confront Crossbones again, how she would be able to convince Bucky to stay still for long enough to allow her to remove the tracker in his arm. And, of course, how Bucky would react to _her._ That, perhaps, was the most important question. How much more had he remembered? He had been so distant, so removed, when she'd last encountered him. Her heart clenched painfully at the thought of looking at him and seeing no recognition in his eyes—as unfamiliar to him as a stranger.

"Sam?" she asked quietly, glancing hesitantly up at him. "I know I've said this a lot, but I just want to thank you for everything you've done for me and Steve. It can't be easy just dropping everything and running off to Europe." She grinned ruefully as she thought of her panicked tirade at Sam as soon as he'd walked in the door that night; Fury had already disappeared, and her explanation had come tumbling out in an incoherent mess. Luckily he had seemed to understand the gist of what she was saying, and had immediately started to pack his bags. "Especially since you were on a date. How did that go, by the way? I didn't get a chance to ask."

"Hey, I don't think I ever said it was a _date,"_ Sam said slyly, but his wide smile proved otherwise. "Yeah, it was great. Zoe really understands what it's like, you know? Her brother was in the army for a while, too. Couldn't ask for a better girl waiting for you at the front desk every morning. Oh, and the food was pretty good, too," he added as an afterthought.

"The VA doesn't mind you just…well, disappearing once in a while?" Beatrice asked curiously.

"Hell, no!" Sam exclaimed. "Not when they know I'm with Steve. I don't work there full-time, anyway. Actually, I've been thinking of cutting back my hours."

Beatrice raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Because of this?" she asked, gesturing around them.

"Kind of," Sam admitted. "But not completely. A lot of my regulars are moving on, starting to get settled. I don't want to have a monopoly on the sessions, you know? Besides, it's been a few years since I was in the field. Things change so quickly."

"But the experiences stay the same."

Sam looked thoughtfully at Beatrice. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "They do."

* * *

They landed in heavy fog, after the plane had been forced to circle the airport for half an hour before the visibility was acceptable. Beatrice sighed in relief when the wheels finally touched ground; she had been tense the entire delay, knowing that every second they were late was another second for Crossbones to get to Bucky first. As it was, she had no idea how much of a head start he had on them.

After retrieving their luggage, Sam rushed her out of the airport and into a taxi with a driver who didn't appear to speak a word of English. For her part, Beatrice didn't know a word of Romanian, so she left Sam to attempt to haggle the fare as she sat in the backseat and chewed on her fingernails as Bucharest flashed past them, buildings looming up in the fog before just as quickly disappearing. Everything was gray, from the fine mist that covered the windows to the apartment buildings that lined the roads, stretching on for miles. These must be the apartment blocks that Sam had told her about, the ones that apparently covered Eastern Europe. Beatrice began to see the reasoning behind hiding here—it would be easy to fade into the uniformity of it all, to be just another resident of the identical, slightly shabby-looking buildings. Occasionally an older or more aesthetically-pleasing building would appear, but for the most part the neighborhoods were made up of apartments, some whose balconies were painted bright colors in an attempt to stand out from the sea of gray. It was the perfect place to blend in, to be anonymous.

Eventually the driver abruptly pulled to the side of the road, earning them a cacophony of annoyed honks from the cars behind, and grunted in what was an obvious signal for them to get out. Beatrice was more than happy to oblige, climbing out of the taxi and onto a bustling sidewalk filled with people who obviously weren't deterred by the gloomy weather. The fog had begun to lift, and Beatrice gratefully took the umbrella Sam offered her as the taxi drove away, spraying cold water in its wake.

Bucky's apartment building was one of many in the surrounding blocks of flats, close to a busy road and a lively market square. Beatrice stuck close to Sam's side as they wove through the crowds; nobody even gave them a second glance.

"He's on the top floor," Sam muttered as they paused in front of the building, huddling under the umbrella. "Corner apartment. I'm going to try to get on the roof and see if I can spot anything."

"All right," Beatrice said, taking a deep breath. "I'll tell him about Rumlow and Hydra's tracker." She paused. "If he'll listen to me."

Sam nodded in agreement, his expression darkening for barely a second. "Be careful, Beatrice," he warned, and she knew he wasn't just talking about Rumlow anymore.

"I will," she said in a small voice, staring at Sam's retreating back. She suddenly felt very alone and very, very afraid. She couldn't think about how Bucky would react to her—if he would be angry or maybe even relieved—or else she wouldn't be able to move: she would be stuck standing outside of this dilapidated building forever, her feet rooted to the ground. There was a third option besides fight or flight, she realized—being paralyzed by fear.

When Sam had rounded the corner and vanished, Beatrice swallowed hard, glanced up at the apartment one more time, and walked straight inside without allowing herself to hesitate any longer.

The lobby was dark and dim; a musty, forgotten smell pervaded the entire area. There wasn't another soul in sight. A dim lightbulb covered in cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and it was somehow even colder than outside. An obviously ancient, rusted elevator stood directly ahead of Beatrice, though she was skeptical that the doors could even still open. It looked wiser to take the stairs, so she did.

The stairwell was equally grim, the concrete worn away by years of footsteps. It, too, was empty, though Beatrice caught flashes of noise from the doors as she passed them: televisions, arguments, laughter. The banister was painted a deep red, and as she climbed floor after floor she was eerily reminded of the abandoned Hydra base in Switzerland where she had first encountered Bucky, where he had caught her after she had lost her balance and fallen over the railing. She doubted she would have the same luck this time.

Thanks to the serum, she was able to reach the top floor in less than five minutes and with only slightly labored breathing. Her heart was hammering more from nerves than effort as her eyes landed on the door at the end of the corridor—the corner apartment, Sam had said. She supposed it made sense; there was less chance of an ambush, and he could only be attacked from one direction. _But why_ here, _Bucky?_ Beatrice thought with a pang of hopelessness.

She stopped in front of the plain wooden door, shifting from foot to foot. The only sound she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. She suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. Rumlow could have been standing behind her and she wouldn't have noticed. Every second seemed to stretch into an eternity as she raised her hand to knock, suddenly terrified that the door would burst open and Bucky would attack her, his hands closing around her throat—

Beatrice knocked twice, the noise sounding like gunshots in the empty stairwell. Next door, the tinny laughter of a sitcom punctuated the air.

Nothing happened.

Beatrice waited, heart in her throat, straining her ears for any noise in the apartment. She could hear someone speaking in Romanian two doors down, even the sound of traffic on the street outside, but Bucky's flat was as silent as a tomb.

With shaking hands, Beatrice turned away from the door and dialed Sam's number, curling an arm around her torso as she listened to it ring. "I don't think he's here," she said as soon as he answered. "I can't hear anything from inside, not even breathing."

"That's because he's out here," Sam replied. "I can see him at the market."

"What's he doing?"

"Nothing yet. He's looking at one of the stalls _—shit!"_ Sam's exclamation made Beatrice's heart drop. "And so is Rumlow. He's at the other end of the square. Wearing a black ski mask. I don't have time to put on my wings. You're gonna have to go down and stop him before he finds Barnes—get him away from the civilians."

Beatrice glanced frantically around, searching for something she could use as a weapon, but the only thing she was holding was her umbrella, and breaking the glass to the nearby fire extinguisher and setting off the alarm would be a very bad idea. "I'll try to lure him somewhere up high," she said, and stuffed the phone back into her pocket before peering over the railing and, squaring her shoulders, launched herself over the banister.

She hurtled through empty air for a long, terrifying second before landing in a crouch several floors below and dashing down the remainder of the stairs, out the deserted lobby and back outside. It was raining now, but she didn't stop to open her umbrella.

The market was a sprawling affair located across the busy road, shopkeepers selling their wares under tented overhangs. Luckily the crowd had thinned out due to the rain, and Beatrice was able to easily spot Rumlow. Like Sam had told her, he was wearing a mask, but his coat had its hood up and the collar zipped to his chin so it wasn't as noticeable. Still, Beatrice recognized his hunched posture at once. He was striding away from her—she had the perfect shot.

She reached the crosswalk and skidded to a halt; there was no break in the cars flying past, and she didn't trust her ability to dodge between them. Desperate, she whirled around in frustration—and then a sudden, brilliant idea popped into her head.

The closest stall to Rumlow was filled with baskets heaping to the brim with fruits. The vendor's back was turned and the only patron in sight was a man wearing a dark jacket. Beatrice grit her teeth, stared at the largest basket of apples, and clenched her hand into a fist, yanking her arm back towards her.

The basket immediately toppled over, sending dozens of apples tumbling to the ground and rolling in every direction. She moved her arm again, and one of them flew up and smacked Rumlow hard in the shoulder.

He stopped instantly, his head jerking up like a hound scenting a fox, and slowly turned back around to face her. They were at least a hundred yards apart, but Beatrice caught Rumlow's glittering eyes through the pouring rain, and knew he had recognized her.

She heard him shout _"You little bitch!"_ , saw him start towards her, and Beatrice turned tail and ran, back the way she had come. She knew a road, no matter how busy it was, wouldn't do anything to stop him, but she could hope it would give her a few extra seconds of time to escape.

"Come on, Sam," she muttered, praying he had noticed what had just happened, and sprinted down the sidewalk, past Bucky's apartment and onto a narrower side street with derelict storefronts and no one in sight. If she could only manage to distract him long enough for Sam to arrive, the other man could handle Rumlow while Beatrice doubled back to find Bucky.

She was relieved to see her spur-of-the-moment plan had worked and there was a fire escape around the back of one of the buildings. Beatrice leapt onto it and pulled herself up onto the bars, not daring to look behind her. If Rumlow had accomplices, she was in trouble.

The fire escape reached up to the top floor, and from there it was easy for Beatrice to pull herself onto the roof using the windowsill as footing. She was suddenly grateful for all the practice she had climbing up Winifred Barnes's rose trellis into Bucky's room, and had a hysterical urge to laugh.

The roof wasn't as tall as some of the other buildings, but Sam should be able to spot her. And Rumlow was away from Bucky and civilians; that was all that mattered.

The gravel crunched on her shoes as Beatrice raced across it, stopping at the edge to stare at the street below, but she couldn't see anything through the rain. Her wet hair hung in matted clumps, sticking to her neck. Had she lost him?

But then heavy footsteps sounded on the fire escape, and Beatrice barely had time to move before Rumlow appeared again, the shiny barrel of a gun pointed at her head.

Beatrice reacted instinctively; she jerked her hand back, blue mist swirling around her fingertips, and Rumlow's gun jammed just as the Hydra agent's had done in Switzerland the first time she had used her powers. But he reacted far more quickly: he dropped it at once and was suddenly barreling toward her, a guttural roar escaping from his throat. Unable to dodge him, Beatrice did the only thing she could and swung her umbrella at his face; he took the full force of the hit in the jaw and howled in pain as he slammed into her, the momentum knocking both of them to the ground. Beatrice was pinned underneath him, blood dripping onto her face, and stretched out her arm, fingers straining—

The umbrella soared back into her hand just as Rumlow's fist came flying toward her face, and she heard a loud crack as the handle snapped in half from the force of his punch. The broken pieces fell to the ground, but this time when he raised his hand, there was nothing to protect her; his knuckles smashed into her nose, her head snapping back with a sickening crunch, and she immediately felt warm blood pouring from her nose. Beatrice had no energy left to fight anymore; she turned her face to the side and waited for the second hit, but it never came: Rumlow's weight was suddenly gone, and Beatrice raised her head, blood dripping from her nose, to see that he had been hauled up and slammed against the chimney while a man with a dark jacket threw punch after punch at him, fighting with a fierce agility that Beatrice had only ever seen Steve match.

Through her fingers, which had been pressed to her nose to stop the flow of blood, she watched Rumlow try to counter the attack, but the flurry of hits was so fast she could barely see them. Every time Rumlow raised his arm, he was quickly blocked, an elbow at his throat.

And then her savior finally stepped back—Rumlow slumped, motionless, to the ground—turned and looked at Beatrice, and her heart stopped beating.

_Bucky._

He was wearing a pair of faded jeans, a dark red shirt visible underneath his jacket, and the baseball cap he had been wearing when she'd seen him last. A pair of gloves covered his hands—to hide his metal fingers, she assumed—and his hair was slightly shorter, not as bedraggled, and curling at the nape of his neck. Stubble still covered his chin. His jaw was clenched, but she met his eyes and saw cold anger in them. No—it was rage.

Time stopped for the briefest of seconds as their eyes met, and then Bucky took another step back, away from Rumlow. Beatrice heard air rushing past her as Sam landed on the roof, wings spread and a jetpack strapped to his back. He hauled up a spitting, cursing Rumlow by the shoulder and the two of them went tumbling over the edge of the roof.

"Get out of here, Beatrice!" he yelled over to her. "I got this!"

She was too stunned to feel relief; pushing herself up onto her elbows, she winced as a stabbing pain shot through the back of her head at the movement. The rain was still coming down hard, blood mixed with water dripping onto the ground. She must resemble a drowned rat.

Bucky hadn't moved since Sam's appearance; now his gray eyes widened slightly as he watched her struggle to stand, and some of the ice in his expression melted. "You shouldn't be here," he said. His voice was tight, controlled. Beatrice tried to ignore the pounding in her skull and squinted at him through the rain.

"We were trying to help you," she argued, wiping her nose with her sleeve; thanks to the serum's accelerated healing capabilities, the gush of blood had stopped, though it was caked on her face and shirt. "Rumlow tracked you down. He would have killed you and probably a dozen other people too if I hadn't distracted him."

"Well, it worked," Bucky said, his expression perfectly serious. Beatrice couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or not, and frankly, she didn't care. "Can you walk?"

She took a tentative step, and then another; her head ached with each footfall, but she stayed upright. "I think so," she told him. "It's just a concussion. I should be fine within a day or two."

Bucky's eyebrows drew together in what looked very much like skepticism, but he nodded his head in the direction of the fire escape. "We need to leave."

Beatrice was reluctant to look away from him, but she followed his gaze anyway, groaning as her head throbbed in protest. Through the haze of pain and adrenaline that clouded her mind, she managed to ask, "Won't people ask questions?"

"Not around here," Bucky said darkly as he swung his leg over the fire escape and disappeared from sight.


	54. LIV

Beatrice later had no recollection of the journey back to Bucky's apartment; her vision kept coming and going in erratic bursts of light, and she was certain she blacked out just after making her way back down the fire escape. The next thing she knew, she was stumbling into an unfamiliar apartment and leaning heavily against Bucky's shoulder as he took the brunt of her weight. When she felt the edge of a couch behind her legs she gratefully sank into it, forcing herself back to awareness. She wouldn't let Rumlow get the better of her twice.

"The last time this happened, I was unconscious for three days," she said aloud, her mind unhelpfully replaying the crunch as Crossbones had slammed her head into the ground. She knew she would heal much quicker than a normal, non-Enhanced individual, but until she was fully recovered, she would have to suffer through the concussion.

"The last time?"

Bucky's voice sounded surprisingly close to her, and Beatrice felt a cold, rough piece of fabric being pushed into her hands—ice cubes wrapped in a dishcloth.

Holding it up to her bruised face, she blinked until Bucky's silhouette came into view, standing several feet away from her. "Thanks," she mumbled, surprised by the gesture. "And it's a long story." She couldn't quite believe that Bucky was _here,_ in the same room as her, alive and unhurt—and he had _helped_ her. She had been expecting more of the distant, closed-off man he had been in Switzerland, but there was something different about him now. Something had changed, but Beatrice didn't know what it was.

Her surroundings gradually began to take shape around her, and soon Beatrice could see that they were in a shabby, one-room flat, the air heavy with dust. The walls were painted truly horrifying shades of green and red, probably in an attempt by some previous tenant to make the space brighter, but the effect was somewhat lessened by the chunks of plaster falling out of the dents. Newspapers covered the windows, blocking any natural light. The small beige couch she was sitting on sent up puffs of dust every time she moved, and there were tiles cracked and missing altogether from the kitchen area, which held an old yellow refrigerator and an electric oven, with utensils and dirty dishes scattered around the table. On the other side of the couch was a mattress, a sleeping bag laid atop it, and a single pillow. The shelving running along the adjacent wall was nearly empty, save for what looked like several notebooks scattered haphazardly along it. The apartment was dilapidated, but clearly lived in.

And then there was Bucky himself. Now that she finally had the opportunity, Beatrice studied him closely, committing every bit of his appearance to memory. Without the leftover adrenaline from the chase, it was beginning to sink in that this was _Bucky,_ that he had spoken to her like he recognized her, that he had willingly brought her back here. She had been remarkably calm, all things considering. None of the scenarios in which she had imagined their reunion had ever turned out like this.

His clothes weren't as new as she had thought on first glance; she guessed they were secondhand. His hiking boots were scuffed, his jeans a faded gray, and his jacket torn in the right arm. But he looked… _healthier._ He had gained weight, and his hair was slightly shorter despite still being unkempt. But the biggest difference were his eyes. When Beatrice had seen him last, they had been darting everywhere, wary and suspicious. Now his gaze was steadier, clearer, though he was still tense and positioned himself more defensively—like his first instinct would be to flee rather than attack. And although his hits on Rumlow had been devastating, there had been none of the brutality of the Winter Soldier Steve had described.

Beatrice wasn't certain how long the two of them just stared at each other wordlessly; the tension between them was like cracking ice. Bucky's expression was carefully blank, but a muscle in his jaw jumped as if he was silently warring with himself. He still hadn't taken off his cap. For her part, she had no idea what expression was on her own face. She had once done the most intimate things with him, and now it was as if they were meeting for the very first time again.

"Is Steve here?"

The words were spoken quickly, muttered in an almost reluctant voice, as if he wanted to spit them out as quickly as possible. Beatrice saw the fingers of his metal hand tense. He blinked once, too fast to look natural. God, she realized—he was _afraid._

"No," she said slowly, shifting her position slightly on the couch; the ancient springs creaked in protest. Not wanting to make any sudden movements, she went still. "I…I don't know where he is," she said, surprised by how much her own words stung. There was a tangible void that came with Steve's absence. "It's just me and Sam here."

The sound of Bucky exhaling would have probably been inaudible to her without the serum, but Beatrice could also see some of the tension in his shoulders lift. Why was he so wary of Steve, she wondered? Was it because he had tried to kill him? Did the fact that she wasn't an experienced fighter like they were mark her as less of a threat?

"Bucky," she said quietly after another painfully long silence. He didn't move or react, just continued to watch her warily. "Why did you help me back there?"

He was soundless for so long that Beatrice was sure he wasn't going to answer, and then—"He would have killed you."

"His name is Brock Rumlow," she replied carefully, and suddenly the cold rage she had glimpsed in his eyes earlier was back. "Did you know him?"

But it was obvious from Bucky's demeanor that yes, he _had_ encountered Rumlow at some point. Beatrice slowly took the dishcloth away from her face so that she could see him more clearly. His eyes hadn't once wavered from her face. The ice cubes had begun to melt, soaking into her hair, and Beatrice absent-mindedly brushed them away, tucking the wet strand behind her ear. She saw Bucky swallow hard. The intensity of his gaze was so overwhelming that she had the sudden urge to hide, not when she didn't know what the intent behind it was. But she wasn't reading anger from him—just wariness and confusion.

She took a deep breath, deciding it was better to tell him the truth as soon as possible. "Look, he was trying to find you. He was trying to kill you. Hydra put a tracker in your arm to make sure they'd always be able to find you again. We came here to protect you and find Rumlow."

Bucky's breath hitched, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. This time he shifted his weight and the floorboards creaked. He blinked hard again and dropped his gaze to something over her shoulder. This Bucky was not at all like the one she had encountered in Switzerland. This Bucky was more vulnerable, more human, more chipped away at the edges. Inwardly Beatrice was rejoicing that there was still a man under all of it, whomever he might be, but she didn't dare to let any of it show.

Still, Bucky's voice was carefully level when he spoke again. "How did you find out?" he asked, his voice short, clipped.

"Nick Fury told us," Beatrice said honestly. "He used to be the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. I guess he still has a few tricks up his sleeve."

Bucky's head was shaking slightly, a tiny movement that he didn't seem to be aware of. "But I killed him," he said flatly. His voice was cold, emotionless, but his eyes were suddenly roiling. Terrified, like an animal caught in a trap.

She recognized the escalation in his body language immediately, and knew that if she didn't act fast she would lose him again. He would either run or shut himself off completely, and she would be no closer than she had been in New York. "No, you didn't," she said soothingly, as unthreateningly as possible. It was fortunate that she was in the more submissive position, sitting down on the couch injured, while he was closest to the door. "He's fine. He…he wants to help you. We all do."

Bucky gave a short, humorless laugh, the sound chilling Beatrice to the bone. There was something twisted in his expression now, something dark in his eyes. "You shouldn't," he said, and turned away from her for the first time, pulling off his cap and tossing it onto the mattress. His hair was matted and wet with rain.

Hot tears pricked at Beatrice's eyes, and this time she let them fall, spilling over onto her cheeks and dripping onto her shirt. The room blurred again. Bucky turned his head back toward her; she must look beyond pathetic, but she didn't care. Better to have him throw her out now and get this over with. She just hoped Steve would understand.

"Rosie," he said.

She stopped breathing. The world had suddenly gone very still; even the street noise outside had faded away. Her lips parted slightly as she stared at him in complete, utter shock; the cloth fell loosely from her hands and fell onto the floor, ice cubes scattering everywhere, but neither of them moved. Bucky's eyes were very, very gray; he looked just as taken aback as she did. The ice between them had finally cracked, and now a torrent threatened to rush forth.

"It wasn't your fault." Bucky sounded hesitant, his voice breaking slightly. He glanced down at the floor and then back up at Beatrice. "What happened to me."

Beatrice swallowed. She felt as if she was walking across a frozen pond, knowing that any step she took could send her plunging into the freezing water below, but having no choice but to go forward. _Talk to him normally,_ a voice inside her head whispered. _Don't react. Don't startle him again._ "But you—you were a prisoner of Hydra's," she whispered hoarsely. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware that next door's television was turned up far too loudly, but it was the last thing she was concerned about.

"So were you." Bucky's lips barely seemed to move as he spoke. He took a step toward her, standing in front of the couch. Beatrice tilted her head up so she could see his face. He was staring at her bracelet.

Beatrice's hand instinctively reached down to twist it around her wrist, and his eyes flickered upward again to meet her face. Something in them had splintered. "Do you remember now?" she asked hesitantly.

He jerked slightly, as if shaking some errant thought away; a shadow crossed his face. "Some of it."

A ringing silence followed his words. Beatrice was reminded of the words the Hydra agent who had confronted them at Rebecca's house had told her: _"We couldn't destroy his brain, unfortunately, or else he'd be useless. We only jumbled up his mind so he can't make sense of it."_

So were his memories coming back, then? Was he beginning to sort through the mess that was his brain? There was no other explanation for him calling her _Rosie._ And Beatrice sensed that he hadn't done it deliberately; it had slipped out of his mouth on instinct. So what would happen if he let down his guard completely?

She was aware she was treading on shaky ground, but she couldn't stop the questions from coming; they spilled out of her like an overturned paint can, staining the floor with color. "Which parts?" She knew her tone was desperate, but she didn't care.

He paused. "You."

"And Steve?"

This time the pause was longer. "Yeah."

Beatrice nodded slowly. Just because he remembered her didn't mean he trusted her. But this was so much more than she had hoped. She wanted to ask him everything, but knew that wasn't the line to cross right now. So far they were on tentative ground, but she was well aware that it could break at the slightest provocation. So she decided to change the topic; reaching down to pick up the discarded dishcloth, Beatrice carefully folded it on her lap, wiping her bloodstained fingers with it. Bucky was still hovering over her.

"Listen," she said carefully. "You're going to have to trust me to remove the tracker. So far Rumlow is the only one we know of who's decrypted the files, but I'm sure there will be more eventually. So you—you can throw me out afterward, or run, or do whatever you want, and I promise Hydra won't be able to find you."

 _Or us._ The words were left dangling, but both Beatrice and Bucky knew they were there. She lifted her gaze to his, trying to look as earnest and non-threatening as possible. _Did_ he see her as a threat? Was he worried she might betray him? The thought made her feel vaguely nauseous.

Bucky's gray eyes regarded her for a long moment—she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed nervously—and then he nodded once, stiffly. Relief immediately flooded through Beatrice, and she got to her feet, wincing only slightly at the pain that shot through her skull, though it was duller than it had been on the roof. She just needed to rest and give her body time to repair itself. She hoped that Sam had taken Rumlow to a place far from the city center.

Bucky walked over to the kitchen island and procured a toolbox, which, Beatrice realized, could also be used as weapons if required. She didn't know the first thing about tools, but it couldn't be more difficult than stitching up a patient, right? She swallowed hard.

"Maybe we should go over to the table?" she suggested, trying in vain to quell her nervousness. Bucky gave a short, sharp nod and sat down at the small wooden table off to the side of the room. Beatrice copied him, sitting gingerly down on the opposite chair. He had already opened the toolbox and laid out a rusted pair of pliers, a flathead screwdriver and a soldering iron, as if he knew exactly what she should do.

"So they put it in my arm?" he asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. He didn't look surprised in the least when Beatrice nodded. She couldn't quite believe that he was acquiescing so easily.

"In the red star just below your shoulder," Beatrice admitted, eyeing him critically as he shrugged off his jacket. Underneath it was a red sweater, and she realized with a wave of horror that he wouldn't be able to roll up the sleeve very far. "Um, actually, I think you're going to have to remove your shirt," she told him, trying her best to pretend that he was just another one of her patients and failing.

The old Bucky would have made a suggestive comment and smirked, but as it was this Bucky obliged straight away—she could have sworn there was a momentary glimmer of amusement in his eyes that was quickly replaced by a more neutral look. Beatrice automatically glanced away as he pulled off his shirt. God, why was this so embarrassing? She'd seen him in much less before. She couldn't remain professional.

But when she chanced to look at his arm again, all thoughts of his bare chest rushed out of her mind. The skin around his shoulder was red and puckered, the metal completely fused into his arm. The scarring would never heal, that was for certain. Beatrice had never seen any injury quite like it, and she had seen a lot of the most horrific wounds a human could sustain. Hydra had been crude at best with their handiwork, so that the line between metal and man was clearly visible.

She tried her best to keep the shock off her face, but she was sure Bucky had seen it; she could feel his eyes on her. Her heart began to race in embarrassment, her cheeks growing hot. She scrambled to think of a reassurance—that it wasn't _him_ she was disgusted at, it was what Hydra had done to him, but couldn't seem to find the words. So she mutely reached for the screwdriver and skeptically stared at the bright red star on his deltoid; she didn't think she had the strength to pry it off his arm, and she was no mechanic. But it was in such a location that it was impossible for Bucky to open himself—likely a conscious decision by Hydra—and she doubted that he would allow anyone else to get this close to him short of being sedated. Something fluttered inside her chest, but she quickly pushed the hope back down.

"I've stitched up lots of people before, but I've never tried anything like this," she began haltingly, keeping her eyes fixed on his. "So if you want me to stop, just tell me, okay?"

He gave an answering nod. Beatrice realized he had barely spoken since she'd brought up the subject of removing the tracker, and there was a peculiar distant look in his eyes. The thought that he might be remembering his Winter Soldier days made her feel ill. She would have to make this as gentle as possible—she had no idea how the arm transmitted signals to his brain, or if he was even able to feel pain. "All right," she mumbled, more to herself than him, and bent over his arm.

As soon as her fingers brushed the cool metal, Bucky shuddered—not harshly, but enough to make her pause. Already tense, Beatrice immediately jerked her hand away, her heart suddenly pounding wildly, and another comment by the Hydra agent she'd encountered in Brooklyn rushed back into her mind:

" _He had a pretty little doctor once. Looked just like you. He was obedient around her more than any of the others. Pierce never could figure out why. Until one day she was there when he came out of cryo, just before he was wiped. You know what he did to her?"_

Beatrice froze.

" _I reckon she still has the scars on her face."_

"B—Bucky?" she asked hoarsely. His eyes wheeled around and focused on her; his pupils were blown. She carefully lifted her hands up to show him she meant no harm, and watched in trepidation as he slowly calmed. "It's just me," she said quietly. "Beatrice—Rosie."

He nodded slowly, and something like shame crossed his face. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to do that."

"It's understandable," Beatrice told him. "It's common." What _wasn't_ so common, however, were her patients being ex-brainwashed Soviet assassins, but she was sure neither of them wanted to be reminded of that. "Do you want me to stop?"

He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "Keep going." His eyes were closed and he went perfectly still. She couldn't even see him breathing. So Beatrice took the opportunity to lean forward again. This time he didn't flinch, and she was able to gently run her fingers along the cool metal to try to get a feel for his arm. She was sure neither of them were breathing now. It felt indestructibly strong—well, it had to be, didn't it? she thought stupidly—and his fingers flexed as she softly traced the red star with her fingers, but it seemed more of an involuntary reflex than anything.

Placing her tongue between her teeth in concentration, Beatrice wedged the tip of the screwdriver between the red paint and the rest of the metal. Fury's intel had been right: the star made up another separate panel in itself. She chanced a glance at Bucky, but he appeared to be making an effort to sit as still as possible now. He was looking at her again; she gave him a small smile when their eyes met and the corner of his mouth twisted up in what might have been an attempt to reciprocate.

"Can I—" she began, and he gave a rueful shake of his head, correctly guessing her next question.

"You don't need to ask if you can touch me," he told her. There was that twinge of _something_ in Beatrice's abdomen again—something that was inexplicably like butterflies. She was so aware of _Bucky_ that it was painful—she might as well have been at the dance hall in Brooklyn again, silently begging him to touch her. There was a strange expression on his face that made her wonder if he sensed it too.

Beatrice forced herself to turn her attention back to the task at hand, delicately running the head of the screwdriver between the star and the rest of his arm until the panel popped off completely, leaving him with his arm exposed. Bucky was staring at the red star in her palm; Beatrice instinctively closed her fingers around it and peered into the inner workings of the metal. All she could see was an impossible tangle of wires that seemed strangely analogous to muscle and bone. As much as she hated to admit it, the design really was quite impressive.

"Do you see it?" This time Bucky's voice broke the silence and it was Beatrice's turn to jump. Shaking her head quickly, she fought to pull herself together.

"Not yet," she told him. "There are…um…a lot of wires."

Bucky gave a strange tremor, and Beatrice stared at him, wide-eyed, until she realized it had been a laugh. "No kidding," he said, and for a split second, there he was— _there he was—_ her Bucky, shining through. He was looking at her like he used to look at her whenever she had said something unexpected, that familiar affection tinged with amusement.

She blinked rapidly at him, open-mouthed. The blood rushing through her ears was suddenly deafening. _Say something,_ the logical part of her mind screamed, and she managed to stutter, "Look, I'm more used to bones and muscles."

The amusement still hadn't quite faded from his eyes, but his expression turned solemn again. "You're a nurse," he said, more to himself than her, and just like that, his eyes clouded again. Beatrice's heart sank, but this time she didn't let him see her disappointment as she turned her attention to his arm again.

" _Was_ a nurse," she corrected gloomily as her eyes landed on a misshapen chip that didn't look as if it belonged with the rest of the wires. "I'm not quite sure I'd qualify as one anymore."

"Why not?"

These were questions she hadn't even brought up with Steve, and Beatrice didn't dare to look up at Bucky again—she didn't want him to see the sadness in her eyes. "The future is a different place," was all she said; she was sure Bucky knew she was lying, but he lapsed into silence and she mentally kicked herself, hating the way that the mood suddenly hung heavy and ominous over them when a moment ago it had been so light.

After another minute of ascertaining that the chip she had spotted wasn't, in fact, supposed to be there, like a tumor, Beatrice gestured toward the table. "Can you pass me the pliers?" She supposed she could have used her powers, but she didn't want to alarm him and besides, it gave the patient more of a sense of control if they felt like they were helping.

Bucky held them out to her, and Beatrice muttered a quick thanks as she grasped them with her hand and carefully pushed them into his arm, locking it around the chip before maneuvering it around his arm. It took a bit of twisting, but Bucky didn't make a sound as Beatrice struggled with the chip before there was a small cracking noise and it was suddenly free of him.

His eyes visibly darkened as she dropped it into his hand. It was barely the size of her fingernail, a black disc that had been secretly feeding his movements to Hydra for decades. Quicker than Beatrice had imagined, he crushed it with his flesh hand until it was nothing but dust in his palm, slowly turning his hand over and letting it scatter onto the floorboards. He was staring down at it with an unreadable expression, and Beatrice uncomfortably looked away, using the awkward movement as an excuse to take the soldering iron.

As soon as she touched it to the metal, a thin trail of smoke curled up into the air, the acrid stench reaching her nose almost immediately. Bucky didn't appear to be in pain, so Beatrice carefully reattached the panel to his arm, making sure the metal was properly welded together. When she was certain it was securely closed again, she let out a deep breath and brushed the sweaty hair out of her eyes. She had done it.

"See if it works," she said, leaning back and nodding to him. Bucky moved his arm, flexing his fingers and rotating his shoulders before pulling his shirt back over his head. Beatrice hadn't even realized she had been staring at the smooth muscles of his abdomen until she was able to snap herself out of the momentary daze.

"Thank you." The quiet relief in Bucky's voice was audible. He smiled tiredly but genuinely at her, and Beatrice nearly started to cry again.

* * *

Her phone rang barely an hour later, the screen lighting up with a buzzing urgency. Beatrice was attempting to scrub the bloodstains off her clothes in the apartment's tiny bathroom, the yellowed tub in the corner little more than a washbasin.

She glanced sharply over at the phone resting on the edge of the sink, up to her elbows in murky water, and quickly straightened up, wiping her hands on the spare towel hanging on the hook. For a heartstopping second, she thought it was Steve, and her mind went into overdrive coming up with a thousand different explanations for where she was and why she was there, until she saw that it was Sam's number and not Steve's.

Guilty relief bubbled up in her chest as she answered the call, sliding down against the closed bathroom door and lowering her voice so that there was less of a chance of Bucky hearing the conversation. The apartment's painfully thin walls offered little privacy.

"Sam! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm good." He sounded out of breath, but his voice was as calm and steady as usual. "But Rumlow got away, Beatrice. He ripped off one of my wings and ran. I chased after him on foot, but he must know this area better than I do."

Beatrice had to stuff her knuckles in her mouth to keep from growling in frustration. Rumlow had escaped _again_ , and now they were back at square one. If only she could use the Norn Stone to track down her enemies like Ivan—

"But I got your stuff back."

Beatrice's train of thought immediately screeched to a halt. _"What?"_

"He tossed his bag onto the road to distract me," Sam explained. "At first I thought he might have planted a bomb in there, but it was mostly empty except for a couple rounds of ammo and a map. I'm guessing the letters and medals are yours."

"Yes, they are," Beatrice said, a giddy jubilance surging through her. She hoped that they weren't too damaged. As disgusted by the idea of Rumlow reading her private thoughts as she was, the fact that it would at least be returned to her was relieving. She wouldn't have to lie to Henry anymore. "I can't thank you enough, Sam."

"Save that for when Rumlow's actually caught," he said darkly, before taking on a more concerned tone. "What about you? Are you okay?"

Beatrice dropped her voice even lower so that she was almost whispering into the phone. "Yes. Better than fine, actually. I'm at Bucky's apartment. He let me remove the tracker."

"Seriously?" Sam sounded genuinely surprised. "Is he stable?"

"He seems to be," Beatrice replied, straining her ears for any noise from Bucky. "He saved me from Rumlow up on that roof. I would have been in a lot worse shape if he hadn't followed us. He's…kind of wary, but that's understandable. He remembered some things about me. Things no one else could have told him."

"Maybe Steve was right," Sam muttered with a disbelieving chuckle. "Listen, I'm at a hotel in Lipscani. When do you wanna meet?"

Beatrice's grip tightened on the phone; she couldn't leave Bucky—not here, not now, when she was so close to getting through to him. "I don't know," she said slowly.

"Beatrice…you can't stay there forever. Sooner or later Steve is gonna want to know where we are." The gently chiding tone of Sam's voice masked a warning beneath, one she had often heard him direct at Steve. She sighed, disliking his pragmatism.

"Just give me some more time. That's all I need," she hedged, staring at her jacket floating aimlessly in the bathtub, heavy with water. "Please."

Sam's answering groan was audible. "You two really are alike," he muttered. "Fine, but you gotta call me if anything happens or I'm coming to get you."

"I will," Beatrice promised. "I'll be fine, Sam. I lived through a war, remember?"

But after the call had ended and she was left with her own thoughts again did she admit to herself that she had never faced anything quite like this before. Bucky was intensely personal, and while she knew she could defend herself if it came down to it, she wasn't sure that she would be able to put her feelings aside and look objectively at the situation—perhaps even less than Steve could. He had faced the Winter Soldier: Beatrice hadn't.

Even so…her instincts hadn't betrayed her yet. Bucky had saved her from Rumlow and allowed her inside his apartment. He'd even _admitted_ that he remembered her. Beatrice knew he wasn't lying. All she saw was a conflicted, tortured man who, after encountering her in Switzerland, had fled while still unable to cope with his broken mind.

She loved him—oh God, she still loved him and would never stop, no matter what he had become. That was the one thing she had learned today, if nothing else. It was why she couldn't quite feel fear even though she knew she probably should, why she was so willing to confront Rumlow even though she knew she was putting herself in danger. She had travelled halfway across the world for Bucky, and would do it all over again even if she knew that he wouldn't save her. She used to be able to tell exactly what Bucky was thinking just from the look in his eyes, but now there were only brief flashes of the man who had once been her fiancé. But she had promised him everything, and she would keep her promise, knowing that he would have done the same for her.

" _If I were you, I would be wondering_ why _Barnes even went to Switzerland in the first place."_

Natasha's words at the party echoed in her mind again, entirely unbidden. Beatrice hadn't given the remark much thought; she had assumed, like Steve, that he'd simply remembered the old Hydra base where they had encountered him and decided to follow the trail of memories. But Steve had also mentioned that the facility hadn't been in use for decades; would it really be the first thing Bucky remembered, and so strongly that he would head there right away? Steve had said that Bucky had probably been listening to his phone conversation with Natasha when they'd found Beatrice—

And just like that, she understood, with a violent shudder, why she had met Bucky at that specific Hydra base, why he had smuggled himself on a flight to Geneva instead of staying in the United States where it would be easier for him to hide.

He had come to Europe because of her.


	55. LV

**Seoul, South Korea**

"She could help us, Steve."

"No."

The sound of Steve's teeth grinding together as he clenched his jaw was audible over the hum of the quinjet; his answer was terse and almost defensive. He had barely spoken since they'd departed the safe house in Iowa, leaving Clint and Natasha to discuss strategies among themselves. Now that they had entered Korean airspace, the task ahead of them—locate Helen Cho's genetics lab and the synthetic body Ultron was attempting to upload his consciousness into—was hanging over the atmosphere like a dark cloud. After many conspiratorial glances between her and Clint, Natasha had finally stepped forward and suggested the idea of enlisting Beatrice's help in the hunt for Ultron. Steve had not taken it well.

"It's too dangerous," he said staunchly, glancing up at Natasha from where he was examining a map of Seoul. "She's safer in D.C. with Sam."

Natasha remained unfazed; she merely crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall, tugging on a stray curl. "Maybe," she demurred with a shrug. "But we need all the help we can get."

Steve looked unconvinced. "How?" he asked, slightly warily.

"I'd imagine telekinesis could be potentially useful." There was a subtly teasing note in Natasha's reply; from his position in the cockpit, Clint smirked. "Not to mention the enhanced senses and increased healing capabilities. She shouldn't have survived that encounter with Rumlow. And Thor said himself that the Tesseract and the scepter are similar." Natasha paused, letting her words sink in. "Face it, Steve, she could be an asset to us."

Steve's face abruptly changed at her last line, muted anger flashing in his blue eyes as he rounded on Natasha. The cracks in his careful façade of self-control had finally splintered; it could almost have been Tony Stark standing in front of him.

"Are you _still_ incapable of seeing people as anything but assets?" he demanded in a low, irritated voice. "Beatrice is your family, not a pawn on a chessboard. How many times have you even spoken to her?"

A ringing silence filled the quinjet. Clint very conspicuously put on his headset to listen to air traffic control. Natasha hadn't moved since Steve's outburst.

"I'm aware of our relation, thank you," she said in an equally measured voice, her face blank. All of the playfulness had left her eyes. "Did you expect us to hug and become best friends? She doesn't want that, Steve. Besides, who says I haven't talked to her?"

"But you could have done _something,"_ Steve argued. "Made her feel welcome—"

"You already had those bases covered, I'd say." Natasha's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Look, I asked Hill to keep an eye on her when we were in Sokovia."

"And a lot of good that did."

The redhead hummed in disagreement. "Not really. She was able to give us information on Rumlow, and saved Hill's life. I'm still impressed. Not that Henry needs to know about it," she added, almost to herself.

Steve looked seconds away from rolling his eyes; only his professionalism kept him from doing so. "Still, she has no experience in this kind of thing. She doesn't know how to fight—not like us. Ultron would exploit her weaknesses in a second, not to mention the Maximoffs."

"I can teach her," Natasha said as casually as if she was offering to explain the rules of chess. "Come on, Steve. We need her."

But Steve still shook his head, casting his gaze downward and refusing to meet her eyes. "I want to give her the choice to fight or not like I didn't have when S.H.I.E.L.D. brought me out of the ice. The choice Bucky didn't have."

"But you don't want her to say yes," Natasha said quietly, a statement rather than a question.

Steve was silent for a long moment; the dim lighting cast dark shadows under his eyes, illuminating his hunched figure so that he greatly resembled the old man he was supposed to be. He ran a weary hand over his face. "I can't lose Beatrice like I lost Bucky, Nat," he said in a voice that, while resigned, held a tinge of desperation. "I just can't."

And Natasha, for all her expertise at reading people, found that she was no longer able to tell what Steve was thinking. But she had a feeling that Beatrice could.

* * *

**Bucharest**

No sooner had Beatrice come to her realization than a terrible thought struck her: She had removed Hydra's tracker and Bucky was free—so what was stopping him from escaping the apartment while she was distracted? He could more than easily leave with her being none the wiser, flee to a different city, disappear into the anonymous crowds and the endless rows of apartment blocks. Not even Fury would be able to find him then.

Heart in her throat, Beatrice wrung out the excess water from her jacket and hung it over the side of the bathtub to dry before cautiously opening the door, bracing herself in case she was met with a deserted apartment—

But the first thing her eyes landed on was Bucky himself, standing in the middle of the kitchenette with an apple in his metal hand; he appeared to be examining its texture with his fingers. As soon as he saw Beatrice he immediately put it down on the table and moved away. Relief surged through her so strongly that her legs felt weak. Surely he had to have at least _considered_ the possibility of leaving. It would, by all accounts, make his life easier. And yet he was still here with her.

"Who were you talking to?" Bucky asked. He sounded casual, but there was a definite note of tension in the way he regarded her, as if he was trying to prepare himself for the answer.

"Sam wanted to know if I was all right," Beatrice replied carefully, silently cursing herself for not making an effort to speak more quietly. But she didn't miss the way Bucky's stance relaxed ever so slightly when she said Sam's name. He was scared that she had been talking to Steve, she realized. But why was he so intent on Steve not knowing where he was? "He said that Rumlow managed to get away. But he won't come after you again," she added hurriedly. "Not without the tracker." She privately felt that this wouldn't be the last of Crossbones, either, but at least she could put it out of her mind for the moment.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at her. "What did you mean when you said you met him before?"

Caught off-guard by the question, Beatrice flailed for a moment before finding the proper words: "We had an…encounter in New York. I was staying at Avengers Tower while they were away on a mission and Rumlow was able to get inside. He took some of my things before escaping, but I followed him to a Hydra safe house in Hell's Kitchen. He got away that time, too. Steve thinks that he wants revenge on him for what happened in Washington."

Bucky's expression darkened at the mention of the Triskelion incident—or was it Steve?—and he dropped his gaze to the table as he muttered, "Rumlow was one of Pierce's favorites. He never questioned anything."

Beatrice noted the tension in his jaw and said gently, "But _you_ did. You're more than what Hydra made you, Bucky."

He scoffed and turned away from her. "This is who I always was."

She was about to argue when she understood, with a sickening reality, that he was right. The seeds of the Winter Soldier had been planted long before his memories were erased, perhaps even before Zola had injected him with the serum. Bucky had been the Howling Commandos' first and only sniper—effective at his job and ruthless besides. His fierce loyalty to Steve, and by extension the SSR, was unparalleled. Hydra had simply taken the qualities that were already present and twisted them to make it theirs.

"But you're not the Winter Soldier," Beatrice said after another painfully long silence. "You could have gone after those who wronged you—killed those agents back in D.C.—but you didn't. That was all you. And you saved me. Twice."

Bucky slowly raised his head and met her eyes again; they were dark with emotion. "I don't want more blood on my hands." He spoke softly, almost plaintively, but he was so tense Beatrice could almost see the tremors in his arms.

Guided by force of habit, a desire to comfort, she crossed the apartment and stood next to him, staring up at his face. Bucky didn't move, even though they were mere inches apart. He looked confused and wary and broken all at once. "Stay still," she told him quietly, and reached up to place her hand on his face.

Rough stubble scratched against her fingertips, but the skin under it was warm. Beatrice splayed her hand along his cheek, her fingers at his ear and her thumb inches from his mouth. Bucky's eyes widened in shock, but he made no effort to pull away. His hand came up to cover hers, as if he was going to move it but couldn't quite bring himself to do so. His metal fingers were cold against hers; she could feel the power running underneath them, like a tangible hum. He could easily kill her right now without moving a single muscle.

"You're a good man, Bucky Barnes," Beatrice told him, her voice cracking. She felt tears threatening to make another reappearance. "If you weren't, you wouldn't let me do this. Hydra made you do terrible things, but none of it was your fault."

"I'm not who you think I am," he said bitterly, with a vicious shake of his head. "I could never be the hero Steve wants me to be even if I tried."

"No one expects you to be a hero, Buck." She paused. "Not even Steve."

"God, Rosie, you don't—" But he cut himself off, his jaw clenching tightly. Beatrice felt the building tension in his muscles and slid her hand out from under his, bringing it back to her side. He let his own hand fall limply onto the table. "I can't face him right now. I'm putting both of you in danger. I don't want you to be here when—"

"When what?"

"Never mind." He sounded frustrated, taking a step backwards and wringing his hands together. Beatrice stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stop herself from shouting at him that he had it all wrong, that the only people who were to blame for the Winter Soldier were long dead, that he had no right to abandon her and Steve, to run away from his problems and attempt to solve everything by himself. How dare he act like she and Steve had no personal stake in this, in _him,_ when she could see for herself how it was killing Steve day by day. It was killing her, too. Beatrice didn't have the ability to put on a brave face and deliberately switch her mind to the task at hand like Steve. She had been so certain she was getting through to Bucky not an hour earlier. What had happened to change his demeanor so suddenly?

But most of all, she wanted to tell him about everything that had happened to her, to spill her heart and mind into his hands and know that he was listening to every word she said. She wanted— _needed_ —to tell him about the vision she had seen in the Norn Stone; her sudden, unexplainable powers; the Ultron fiasco; just how terrified Rumlow made her feel; the fact that his sister was waiting for him to come home; Henry's tragic life and her discovery of his only daughter—her niece. Beatrice didn't even care what he would say, if he tried to alleviate her worries or not. She just wanted to talk to him and feel like _Bucky_ was listening to her, like maybe things weren't so hopeless after all. Every time she managed to take a tentative step forward with him, she would say something or some errant thought would cross his mind that caused him to shut himself off again, and Beatrice could never be certain if it was for good. _Steve would know what to do,_ she thought, but somehow that only made her feel worse.

A gentle breeze from outside caused the newspapers covering the windows to flutter slightly, bringing with it the smell of food from a vendor on the street below. Beatrice found herself momentarily distracted as she inhaled deeply—her empty stomach growled in protest. She hadn't eaten since she had left D.C.; maybe that was the reason why she couldn't think clearly.

Her reaction hadn't escaped Bucky's notice; he raised his head and cast her a questioning glance. "Are you hungry?" he asked. The tense atmosphere between them seemed to dissipate at his words, deliberately breaking the stifling heaviness.

Beatrice wasn't sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. "A little bit," she admitted, though it was the understatement of the century: she could have happily devoured an entire meal then and there.

Bucky turned to the refrigerator and opened it, peering inside as if he wasn't quite sure himself what was there. Beatrice couldn't help but glance over his shoulder: it was sparse, with a few depressed-looking vegetables stacked on the shelves and a half-empty carton of eggs. Her attention, however, immediately landed on the shiny red and distinctive logo of Coca-Cola.

"You have Coke?" she asked in disbelief, as her heart turned over in her chest and memories of a smoky dance hall whirled around her mind.

Bucky reached inside and grabbed one of the glass bottles, handing it to her with only a cursory glance at the drink. "Yeah. It's the cheapest thing around here," he said, seeming not to notice Beatrice's shock. She was glad he didn't: she didn't want him to see her falling to pieces over a _soda,_ of all things.

Seizing the opportunity to divert him even more as well as answer another of her questions, she haltingly asked, "Where did you get the money from to rent this place?"

Bucky straightened up, this time with two prepackaged sandwiches in his hands, and took a seat in the chair where Beatrice had just removed the tracker. He didn't meet her eyes as he muttered, "Hydra has money stored in thousands of bank vaults. They won't notice anything is gone."

Beatrice had expected a similar answer, but she couldn't stop the guilty wave of relief that meant Bucky hadn't harmed anyone—not even Hydra agents—in order to get money. Looking up at him, she saw that he had already unwrapped his sandwich and even appeared to be leaning back in his chair slightly, though he was still alert. This appeared to be a normal activity for him. Beatrice turned her attention to her own sandwich, intending to take an experimental bite, but she found herself gulping it down before she could stop herself, not realizing how hungry she'd been. She thought it might be stale tuna, and the Coke was flatter than she remembered, but it was the best meal she'd eaten in days.

"I wrote a letter here."

Bucky's voice sounded strangely hesitant as he broke the silence again. Beatrice paused mid-bite and stared at him, wondering if she'd heard correctly. He glanced up to meet her eyes, something pleading in his gaze as if he hoped she had the answer. "During the war. I was in Bucharest. I remember…" But he gave a tiny, frustrated shake of his head instead of finishing. Clearly the details were vague at best.

Beatrice slowly put down her sandwich, her heart suddenly thudding so hard that she could feel it in her extremities. He _had_ remembered it. "Yes, it was a letter addressed to me," she said quickly, hoping her voice wouldn't tremble and betray the frenzied giddiness suddenly swelling up inside her. "It was the last letter you wrote. The Howling Commandos were stationed here for a while before being sent to London."

Something like recognition stirred in his eyes, and Beatrice saw his expression relax as he realized that he had been right after all. "It was winter," Bucky continued, slowly, and Beatrice waited to see him puzzle out the details, his eyes suddenly glazing over as his brain tried desperately to piece the memory fragments together. "There was a Hydra base…and Steve was there. But I never sent the letter."

She nodded, barely able to disguise her unadulterated relief. "I had it, Bucky. It was one of the letters that Rumlow stole. You were going to give it to me after we left the Dorchester. A hotel in London—we spent the night there," she added hastily, in case he wasn't ready for specifics.

Strangely enough, Bucky concentrated on the second part of her sentence rather than the first. "The Dorchester," he repeated, and a slow grin spread across his face. "I remember that, too," he murmured.

Beatrice felt herself hastily turning red; she cleared her throat and quickly stuffed the rest of the sandwich in her mouth to keep from fielding any more of his questions. Bucky's eyes refocused on her and he gazed at her with something that was almost a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips. "Did you read it?" he asked. "The letter."

"Yes," Beatrice said carefully.

"What does it say?"

She was about to answer when a low but audible gasp echoed from the street outside. It sounded as if it was close by, right outside the building, and was quickly followed by another shocked murmur. Beatrice immediately stood up and hurried over to the balcony, pushing open the heavy door and onto a block of concrete that jutted out from the apartment. While other units had chairs and storage on their balconies, Bucky's was completely empty. The only view to speak of was that of the gray rooftops of the surrounding buildings and a matching steel sky overhead. She hadn't realized just how late in the day it was; light was fast leaving the sky and the streetlights had begun to flicker on.

But her attention was on the street below; despite Bucky's apartment being on the very top floor, Beatrice could quickly pinpoint the source of the noise: a large crowd was quickly gathering around the storefront of one of the neighboring buildings, an electronics store, where a large television was on display in the window. Several people were clearly in distress as they watched, their hands over their mouths in horror. Beatrice sensed Bucky hovering just inside the apartment where he wouldn't be seen, his expression grim.

She had never been more grateful for her enhanced senses at that moment; she was able to zero in on the screen and see that it was turned to a news channel, though she was hopeless to read the Romanian scrolling across the bottom of the screen. The monitor was showing footage of a gruesome automobile accident accompanied by the picture of a man with a narrow, angular face—all she could deduce was that a neurosurgeon named Stephen Strange had gotten into some sort of car crash on Long Island, though she sensed that wasn't what the crowd was reacting to—before cutting to the steel-and-glass skyline of an unfamiliar city. The smoking ruins of a metro train were being shown, with the news anchor looking solemn as she reported the details in Romanian. From what Beatrice could see, she guessed there hadn't been any casualties, though there were at least a dozen crashed vehicles and a transport truck flipped onto its side. She was still confused as to what was so crucially important when a picture of Avengers Tower flashed across the screen, as well as a grainy image of what she recognized as the quinjet in the dull blue sky. Gripping the balcony in fear, Beatrice strained her ears and barely managed to separate the name _Seoul_ from the unfamiliar Romanian words. What were the Avengers doing in Seoul? She wracked her brains for any mention of South Korea—and then Helen Cho flashed into her mind, the geneticist who had been at Tony's party and who had helped Clint recover from the wounds he'd sustained in Sokovia.

Beatrice whirled around and moved past Bucky back into the apartment again, who looked appropriately wary as he cast another glance outside before closing the door. "What happened?" he asked cautiously.

"Something's happened to the Avengers. To Steve. I don't know what's going on," Beatrice admitted. She stood in the middle of the apartment, pressing her hand to her forehead. It didn't even occur to her that she could use her cell phone until her eyes landed on it lying on the couch where she had carelessly tossed it after leaving the bathroom. Acutely aware of Bucky's eyes on her, she grabbed it and immediately sent a text to Steve asking him if he was all right before calling Sam, who predictably didn't answer.

"Damn it," Beatrice groaned, sitting down heavily on the couch and putting her face in her hands. The phone taunted her with a blank screen; if Steve had his with him, he would have answered right away. She would have to try to contact one of the others—Natasha, or even Stark himself—

"There weren't any injuries." Bucky's voice sounded from behind her, but Beatrice didn't raise her head. She didn't want him to see her falling apart, for him to know that she was in many ways just as lost as he was. "They said that there was only property damage."

Beatrice, who didn't question Bucky's knowledge of Romanian, only allowed the tiniest modicum of relief to sustain her. She felt so utterly useless when Steve—and the others—could be in danger and she had no way of helping. Ultron must have been in Seoul; at least the fact that there hadn't been any fatalities was reassuring. It sounded like the Avengers had managed to escape in time.

"Why is he in Korea?" Bucky asked haltingly. Beatrice finally looked up to see that he had moved to the side of the couch nearest her, a bit of curiosity in his expression. He was slowly becoming more comfortable around her.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I think it has something to do with the genocidal robot that Tony Stark accidentally created." She snuck a glance up at Bucky and was amply rewarded with his look of mingled horror and disbelief. When he realized she was watching him, he quickly schooled his features again. "It'll take more than that to kill Steve," she said more quietly, almost to herself.

Bucky visibly winced, and Beatrice immediately regretted her choice of words. "Or his idealism," he added, and she followed his gaze over to the notebooks stacked on the shelves. She badly wanted to ask what they were for, but managed to bite her tongue.

The shadows were growing longer across the floor, unfurling themselves lazily like a sleeping cat. The street noise outside had dulled, and the tenants next door had thankfully turned off their television. Beatrice didn't want to move, but she knew that the day had to end, as much as she didn't want it to. No matter what happened, time would relentlessly continue on, oblivious to humanity's wishes. It was rather cruel of it to do so, Beatrice had once thought, considering that they were the ones who had given it meaning.

When the night air began to bite at her exposed arms, the lack of heating in the apartment becoming impossible to ignore, she stood up and went into the bathroom to retrieve her jacket, where it had dried in the interim. Beatrice gratefully pulled it around herself, catching Bucky's eye as she emerged.

"Are you leaving?" he asked. His tone was carefully level, his face blank, and Beatrice told herself that she was just imagining the panic in his voice.

"I probably should," she said reluctantly. "It's getting late and I barely know the city. Sam isn't answering his phone."

"You can stay here if you want," he said, the words seemingly coming without volition.

Beatrice was so taken aback that she stammered, "O—Overnight?"

"Yeah," Bucky replied, now looking as if he regretted the offer. "If you have nowhere else to go."

Privately, Beatrice thought that even if she _did_ have somewhere to go, she would choose to stay with Bucky instead. She smiled gratefully at him as she sank back down onto the musty couch, pulling her feet up under her to hug her knees. "Thank you," she said fervently, and Bucky blinked as if he was unused to such vehemence before giving her a nod of acknowledgement.

Beatrice rested her cheek on her hand, feeling the beginnings of exhaustion beginning to weigh her down. She still ached with worry for Steve, but there was a peculiar comfort in knowing Bucky was with her. She watched him cast a furtive glance at her, as if making sure she wasn't paying attention, before going over to the notebooks and flipping open the topmost one, his metal fingers gently turning the pages as if he was searching for something in particular.

She wanted to ask what he was doing, but she was strangely content where she was and didn't want to disturb the peaceful silence. Here she could pretend that nothing had happened and it was just them, Beatrice and Bucky, together again without needing to worry about anything else. As if they were finally both where they belonged.

She closed her eyes.


	56. LVI

**1930**

**Brooklyn**

Rain lashed against the windows of the tenement building, seeping through the cracks between the glass and the brick to trickle slowly inside. The Hartleys' apartment smelled like mold and standing water, but their landlord had turned a blind eye to it as he always did. And then, over the merciless drumming of rain, there was a loud hammering at the front door.

Elena Hartley's fingers froze on her sewing as she listened to the knock. It was the same distinctive pattern that her brother had once told her he would use if he ever needed her in an emergency.

Elena quickly placed her sewing on a nearby chair and stood up, smoothing out her pinafore as she hurried to the door. Trust Ivan to make his first visit on the rainiest day of the season, and after midnight, no less. She could hear John's snoring from their bedroom, and Beatrice had gone to bed hours ago. Perhaps this _was_ a prudent time, then, all things considered.

As soon as Elena opened the door, Ivan fell forward onto the floor as if he had been leaning on it for support. He was soaking wet, water dripping from his hair and his coat, the rain mixed with blood. There was a startling fanaticism, almost a madness, in his eyes.

"Ivan!" she exclaimed, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him to his feet. She spoke in hushed but urgent Russian, quickly glancing behind her to where her husband and daughter slept. "Why are you here? What has happened?"

"I have found it, Elena," Ivan said triumphantly, seeming not to notice his injuries. "The Norn Stone." There was an unmistakeable reverence in his voice.

Elena gasped. Ivan reached into his pocket, but she immediately grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "Not here," she whispered.

"Mama?"

Elena whirled around at once while Ivan stepped backwards, concealed by the shadows around the door. A small figure in a white nightgown was peering around the corner, hazel eyes wide. "I heard voices. Who are you talking to?" Beatrice asked, shivering in the sudden gust of wind that blew inside through the open door.

"I thought I heard someone outside, but it was just the storm," Elena said, moving forward to usher the young girl back into her room. "Go back to bed, _ptichka."_

Beatrice's unusually serious face morphed into a pout. "But Papa is snoring," she complained.

Elena fought to hide a smile. "He cannot snore forever. Listen to the rain instead," she urged.

Beatrice frowned in protest, but she reluctantly allowed her mother to plant a kiss on her forehead and close the door. When Elena was certain she had settled down again, she quickly rejoined Ivan, this time following him outside and onto the front steps of the building. He erupted into a coughing fit before speaking, his face white. He appeared to be struggling to breathe. "You must come with me," he insisted. "I can show you—"

"You are ill, Ivan," Elena said firmly, sweeping a critical eye over his form. "You need a hospital."

But he shook his head violently, though it was evident that the very movement caused him pain. "No hospitals," he said just as vehemently. "They'll put me in a sanatorium."

Elena sighed, but also refused to back down. "Then you need to be seen by a nurse," she told him. "You look hours away from death."

Ivan seemed unfazed by her words. "Who will do so at this time of night?" he asked dubiously.

Elena merely raised her eyebrows. "I can think of one."

* * *

The streets of Flatbush were just as deserted as those in Bushwick—even the usual crowds outside of the bars and drinking-houses were absent, as no sane man would willingly be outside in such a torrential downpour. This made it easy for Ivan and Elena to travel unnoticed: fortunate, since Ivan's hunched gait and bleeding, pale face would have otherwise drawn attention. By the time they reached their destination, another nondescript tenement building, Ivan was noticeably staggering and breathing shallowly. Elena cast him a worried glance as she knocked on the door, hoping desperately that Sarah Rogers was home.

As it turned out, they were in luck: a moment later, the door opened and they were met with a blonde woman wrapped in a worn dressing-gown with a pair of tattered slippers on her feet. She must have been beautiful once, with delicate features and a desirable figure, but there were stress lines worn in the creases of her face, crow's feet shaping her eyes, and her hands were rough and callused. But there was a kindness in her eyes, a gentleness in her demeanor, that was impossible to ignore.

"Mrs. Hartley!" Sarah exclaimed in astonishment, immediately stepping aside to let them in. "Is everything all right?"

"I apologize for coming here at this time of night, but my brother doesn't want to go to the hospital, and you're the only nurse I trust," Elena hurriedly explained. "If there is anything you can do—"

The exhaustion in Sarah's eyes immediately disappeared and she straightened up, giving Ivan a onceover with a trained eye. "Of course," she said at once. "Come in."

Together, she and Elena each took one of Ivan's arms and led him into a small parlor—the main room, really—and gently pushed him down onto a couch that, like him, looked as if it had seen better days. He'd left a trail of blood on the wooden floor, but Sarah seemed not to notice or care.

"Pneumonia," she said grimly as soon as she heard Ivan's rattled breathing. "My son's had it three times. He'll need codeine syrup and bedrest for at least the next week."

At first Elena was relieved that his illness was treatable, but when Sarah cut open his jacket to reveal a bloody gash running the length of his forearm, she gasped out loud. "Oh, Ivan, what have you done?" she cried in horror. "You could have died."

Despite the pain he was in, Ivan managed a slow, tired smile. "But I knew I wouldn't," he said, and patted his pocket. "I had the stone."

Sarah, who was more than used to hearing fevered rambling, didn't even blink, but Elena's own eyes widened. Ivan had been secretly corresponding with her for years, telling her about his work in Russia and his search for the legends that had been passed down through generations of Romanovs. If their parents had still been alive, Elena thought, Mikhail and Rosa would be very proud indeed.

"Ma, what's going on?"

The floorboards behind them creaked and a boy who couldn't have been more than twelve stuck his head inside. He looked very much like Sarah, dark blond hair and bright blue eyes, but he seemed frail and sickly, as if the slightest gust of wind could blow him right over. A thick but scratchy-looking wool blanket hung over his shoulders and his feet were bare. Elena saw surprise and confusion cross his face when he saw Ivan lying prone on the couch.

"I'm just taking care of a patient. Go back to sleep, Steve," Sarah instructed, casting a brief but loving smile at the boy in the same manner as Elena had spoken to Beatrice. Steve still looked intensely curious but nodded obediently, retreating out of the parlor with light footsteps.

Elena turned back to her brother, who was watching Sarah examine his wound. He winced as her fingers prodded at a particularly tender spot, and Sarah nodded to herself as if she had anticipated his reaction. "Just wait here—I need a needle and thread for stitches," she told them before hurrying out of the room with a practiced air.

"Who is she?" Ivan's voice was weaker now, but still alert. Elena moved to brush strands of sweaty hair away from his forehead.

"Her name is Sarah Rogers—she's a nurse in the tuberculosis ward at the hospital on DeKalb Avenue. She's asked me to hem in her son's clothing since he's small for his age."

Ivan let out of a whoosh of air that might have been a quiet laugh. "Still a seamstress, then?" he asked.

Elena tried to quell the wave of shame that rose up inside her. Unlike her brother, she had never been destined for anything greater. "It has become a necessity," she admitted. "With John being let off from the factory, he is unlikely to find other work now. We are lucky to have a roof over our heads. And I want Beatrice to be able to finish school and have the opportunities I never did. Money is scarce these days." She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them, white-knuckled. "I must confess something else. I…I have recently lost a child. Sarah was instrumental in helping me through the aftermath, to make sure that I did not hemorrhage. John has wanted another child, a son, since Beatrice was born, but it has been over ten years and I am beginning to give up hope. I have failed as a wife, and I have failed as a mother for the children I have lost."

Ivan reached over to put his uninjured hand over Elena's. His voice was surprisingly steady as he said, "You will have another child someday, _sestrichka._ I am sure of it."

Elena felt her eyes fill up with tears at his steadfast reassurance. _She_ ought to be comforting _him,_ not the other way around. "You must find a less dangerous job, Ivan," she said as Sarah re-entered the room with a needle and thread. "I fear that one day I will no longer have a brother."

But he just smiled mysteriously and closed his eyes.

Elena watched as Sarah carefully stitched up the gaping wound in Ivan's arm, her fingers quick and precise as they threaded the needle, much like Elena's when she knit two pieces of fabric together. There was a concentrated crease between her eyebrows, an almost stubborn intensity, that reminded Elena of Beatrice when she was focusing hard on something. There was something utterly natural about Sarah's bedside manner, as if she had been born to be a nurse. When she leaned forward, the necklace she usually kept tucked under her collar dangled over the void. The small, heart-shaped ruby caught the candlelight and shone in such a way that seemed as if it was giving off its own glow rather than simply being a conductor for light. It had been a wedding gift from her husband, Joseph. Sarah had been a widow for as long as Elena had known her: one of the last groups of men to be drafted in the Great War, Joseph Rogers had been killed by mustard gas on the battlefield months before his son's birth. Sarah had once told Elena, with a sad smile, that she hadn't even gotten the chance to tell him that she was expecting before she'd received the telegram. Sometimes, in her most private moments, Elena found herself envying the other woman. Sarah's calm and unwavering kindness had weathered her through the death of her husband and the birth of her sickly son. Even now, despite living in near-squalor, there was a contentment on her face. Elena could only wish she had her fortitude.

Ivan did not speak once during the procedure, betraying not even a hint of discomfort, although Elena suspected that was due to the dulling effect of the opium Sarah had given him for pain. His coughs had dwindled down too after taking the codeine syrup, and despite the exhaustion on his face, there was a bit of color coming back into his cheeks. By the time Sarah had finished tending to him, he almost resembled a human again.

"He is welcome to stay here overnight, but I am afraid I cannot give you any longer than that," Sarah said quietly as she gathered up the bloody pieces of cloth. "Steve gets sick if someone so much as sneezes in his direction."

"We'll be gone before sunrise," Elena promised wholeheartedly. "I can't thank you enough for saving my brother's life. I don't have any money, but if there is anything I can mend—a dress, perhaps…"

The corners of Sarah's eyes crinkled as she smiled warmly. "As a matter of fact, there is an overcoat I have owned since I was a child that I never believed I would be able to wear again. If you could manage to repair it, that would be wonderful."

"Of course," Elena said fervently. "I can have it mended by next week."

After Sarah had retrieved the coat—a handsome dark blue, fur-lined parka—and she had given Elena a blanket to sleep on, she blew out the candles and quietly retreated from the parlor, closing the door behind her. Now that Ivan was out of danger, Elena knew the sensible thing to do would be to go home before John and Beatrice woke up and realized she was missing, but he had come to her because she was the only person in the world who could truly understand what he had managed to find.

"It was in Siberia," Ivan said into the darkness after a long, heavy silence. His voice was hoarse. "Buried deep within an underground cave that took me weeks to dig through. But it was exactly where the myths said it was, Elena." With little more than a slight hiss of pain, he managed to reach into his pocket and draw something out into his trembling hand. When he opened his fingers, a soft, iridescent glow lit up the entire room. Elena leaned forward, transfixed, at the opaque, shining gem on his palm. "The Norn Stone," she whispered.

"Do you know what this means?" Ivan's voice was equally reverent. "The tales our parents told us as children—the Asgardians, the Frost Giants, Odin, Laufey—they're all true."

Elena slowly shook her head, unsure if she could even trust her own eyes. She had sung Norse lullabies to Beatrice when her daughter was an infant, told the stories to her when she was a young child, but to see the physical proof, the truth of the legends, was something else entirely. "Does it…respond to you?" she murmured, still in awe.

Ivan nodded. "It is difficult to explain properly." He switched back to Russian, trying to articulate his thoughts so they would make sense aloud, but his words were still fumbling and unsure. "I believe I can see where my enemies are. When I touch the stone, I can survey the people around me and know whether or not they can be trusted. I did not want to go to a hospital because many of the doctors are Soviet spies who will surely recognize me. And despite knowing I had pneumonia, I chose to make the journey back to New York knowing I was safe—at least for the moment."

"What about your arm?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose in something that might have been laughter. "I had an unfortunate fall when I was stowed away on a freight train from Seattle. The government believes that I am still in Moscow."

Elena was still too shocked to berate him; she had not once taken her eyes off the Norn Stone. "If its powers manifest in all Romanov descendants, is it possible that it would extend to me?" she asked haltingly.

"Yes. You are every bit as much of one as I am," Ivan said solemnly. Elena had already unconsciously reached out her hand, and he carefully turned it over onto her palm.

At first she saw nothing—and then light burst behind her eyelids like fireworks, and the parlor was suddenly alive with blinding, shimmering _light._ A glowing red string seemed to stretch between her and Ivan, as if it bound the two together. Elena took a step backward and the string moved with her, no less brilliant in its incandescence.

Mesmerized, she reached out, tracing the other strings that radiated out from her, following them out of the tenement, over the rooftops of Brooklyn, and to the apartment where her husband and daughter slept. Elena allowed herself to marvel at the strength of the bonds that wove them together, a brilliant tapestry of fire, before retreating back into the present moment. Experimentally reaching outward again, like she had discovered a sixth sense, Elena tentatively grasped the form of Sarah Rogers and followed the single brightest thread to her son in the next room. She felt a familiar pull tugging at her and frowned, but allowed herself to continue following another of the red strings, its path twisting and turning until it met— _Beatrice?_

Sure that she had miscalculated, Elena tried again, but there was no error: a band of light connected Beatrice and Steve that was every bit as strong as the one between Elena and Beatrice. Strangely enough, their strings seemed to converge into one tightly entwined thread before spiraling away, ending up somewhere very close by—

But Elena was beginning to feel dizzy, and when she managed to pull herself back to reality she felt drained and unsteady on her feet. The image of the threads of the universe seemed to be permanently burned into her vision.

"What did you see?" Ivan asked, sounding concerned.

With a great effort, Elena raised her head and met his worried but curious gaze. "Fate," she said simply.

* * *

**2014**

**Bucharest**

Beatrice's phone was buzzing urgently against her skull, having fallen from the arm of the couch sometime during the night and rendering it impossible to ignore. Raising her head with an annoyed sigh, she blinked the sleep from her eyes and pulled the phone from her tangle of hair, squinting at the blinding light of the screen. It wasn't a message from Steve, as she had hoped, but a text from Sam:

_I'm waiting outside. If you're not here in five minutes, I'm coming to get you._

Beatrice imagined Bucky's face if Sam showed up at the door before just as quickly deciding that she would rather not open that can of worms. After sending a message back to Sam letting him know that she would be there soon, she carefully sat up and gingerly tested the floorboards to make sure they wouldn't creak before glancing over at Bucky. He was sitting cross-legged on the mattress, his head resting against the wall and his hair falling into his face so that Beatrice couldn't tell if his eyes were closed or not, but his lack of response to her movement made her assume that he actually was asleep. The notebook she had seen him with the previous night and a ballpoint pen were lying several inches from his hand, as if they had slipped out of his grasp. She wondered if he often fell asleep writing in it.

Bucky still didn't react as Beatrice tiptoed across the apartment and opened the door just wide enough for her to slip through before shutting it behind her—but to her it sounded as if the soft click as it closed was enough to wake the entire building.

She had no intentions of leaving with Sam if that was why he was here—she had found Bucky, and was going to stay with him until he told her to leave. Beatrice knew, certainly, that she was letting her hopes get the better of her, but she had half a mind to tell Sam that she was fine here in Bucharest and he could go back to Washington on his own. Beatrice could argue with Steve about it later.

 _But what_ about _Steve?_ her mind unhelpfully whispered. _What if he wants you to go back?_

To that, she had no answer.

Sam was leaning casually just outside the entrance when she finally reached him, having taken the stairs somewhat more slowly than the previous time. He wore a pair of darkly tinted sunglasses and a familiar manila envelope was tucked under his arm. Seeing Beatrice's delight, he nodded his head in the direction of the park across the street. "Let's go for a walk," he suggested.

Beatrice obediently followed him, her curiosity growing with every step. Despite the early hour, there were still a number of people scattered in their midst, from dog-walkers to enthusiastic joggers. Sam took a seat on a bench facing the tennis courts, and Beatrice eagerly sat down next to him. She was nearly bursting with anticipation before he finally spoke again.

"I gotta admit, I didn't expect to see you in one piece," he remarked, raising an eyebrow at her.

Beatrice wasn't sure whether she should be offended or not. "Bucky didn't try to attack me, if that's what you're asking," she replied. "And I don't think he would. He's scared, Sam."

Her companion regarded her for a moment over the tops of his sunglasses. "He must have really loved you," Sam said, looking as serious as Beatrice had ever seen him.

Unable to take comfort in his words, she merely shrugged, hoping her face remained neutral. "Yeah," she said quietly. "He did."

Sam reached for the folder and handed it to her, smoothing out a wrinkle with his thumb. "Everything should be in there," he said. "I guess Rumlow didn't find anything he wanted to keep."

Beatrice peered inside the flap to see a stack of letters and her nursing medals looking relatively untouched. Relief immediately surged through her, and on impulse she reached over and hugged Sam. "Thank you," she told him gratefully. "Next time I swear we'll find Crossbones too."

"We better," Sam said darkly; he still looked angry about Rumlow's escape.

When Beatrice drew back she asked, "Has Steve gotten in touch with you? I heard about what happened in Seoul."

Sam nodded. "He called me last night. Said there was something in Korea that Ultron wanted and he went with Romanoff and Barton to stop it."

Beatrice tried her hardest to quell the acidic wave of jealousy that swept over her at the fact that Steve hadn't contacted her, not even to leave a short message saying that he was all right. "Were they successful?"

"Sort of. Steve and Agent Barton got out, but Romanoff disappeared. They think Ultron took her."

The world briefly tilted as Beatrice's stomach dropped in horror. "And do they know where Ultron is?" she asked numbly, her mind racing and jumping to the worst possible conclusions. Natasha was unbelievably cunning and resourceful—if any of the Avengers could escape, it would be her, Beatrice tried in vain to tell herself. But she was only human, and had no superpowers at that. If Henry lost his daughter, too…Beatrice couldn't even bear to finish the thought.

"Look, if anyone could get out of that situation, it would be her," Sam said, echoing Beatrice's own thoughts.

Ultron could be anywhere in the world by now. And if Tony Stark hadn't created him—no matter how noble his intentions—they wouldn't be having this conversation. "God," was all Beatrice could mutter, staring straight ahead at the tennis players and worrying her bottom lip. The women were wearing crisp white uniforms just as Beatrice remembered them in her day, and she thought about how blissfully unaware they were that a maniacal robot was running loose, that the careless actions of one person could have thrown the entire world into danger on a scale Beatrice couldn't even imagine, or that history's greatest assassin was living just streets away from them—

"Or that a nurse from World War Two is watching them play," Sam chuckled.

Beatrice blinked at him; she hadn't meant to speak out loud. "I guess you're right."

Now Sam turned to look at her curiously. There was a hint of repressed laughter tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So you spent the night with Barnes, huh?" he asked.

"Yes," Beatrice said uncomfortably, fidgeting in her seat. She could guess what he was hinting at.

Sam's smirk turned into a full-fledged grin. "First time since 1945, huh?"

Beatrice blanched. "No!" she exclaimed too loudly. "It wasn't like that." She paused. "And it was 1944, actually."

Sam laughed out loud this time, and Beatrice tried to hide her own reluctant smile, pleased that she had managed to elicit such a reaction from him. "I don't suppose you told Steve that we're in Bucharest?" she tried, not-so-subtly steering the conversation to less personal matters.

"Hell, no!" Sam declared, a wide grin still on his face. "That's all your job." He seemed about to say something else, too, but his eyes caught on a point over Beatrice's shoulder and his face immediately darkened. She didn't need to guess what—or who—he was looking at; her suspicions were confirmed the instant she made eye contact with Bucky, who was standing on the sidewalk a short distance away, but Beatrice knew he had heard everything. He held her gaze, his face carefully blank.

"Wait here," she told Sam, and without waiting for a response, she jumped to her feet and strode across the grass to where Bucky moved to meet her in the shadow of a large pine tree. He didn't look angry or upset at all—perhaps because he had heard they weren't discussing him. Or maybe he remembered enough about Beatrice that he knew she could be trusted. The thought made her heart swell.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked as she drew closer to him. He hadn't put on his baseball cap, and his long hair ruffled slightly in the breeze.

"I heard you leaving," Bucky said. He looked strangely amused. Beatrice realized it had been foolish of her to assume that he wouldn't notice, although in her defense he _had_ convincingly seemed asleep. Maybe he had been.

"Sam returned the things Rumlow stole," she explained awkwardly, even though clarification wasn't necessary. She opened the folder and dug out the first envelope on the pile, the letter Bucky had written while the Howling Commandos were in Romania. The dog tags he had offered to her were tucked in alongside it. If he'd asked her to, she could recite the letter from memory: _"Rosie, how are you doing, doll? They better be treating you well at the field hospital. Your uncle said you might be in London for Christmas—maybe we'll get a chance to see each other again. It's been four months_ _and I still think about you every day—"_

Bucky took the envelope almost cautiously, as if the contents might burn him. But there was an unmistakable curiosity in his eyes. "You wanted to read this," Beatrice said.

He turned his attention back to her; now he was able to properly meet her gaze without glancing away. "Is Rebecca still alive?" he asked.

The question was so unexpected that Beatrice's mouth fell open and she stared dumbly at him for a full ten seconds before recovering and managing to stutter out, "Yes. She still lives in Brooklyn; she inherited your family's house. She has two grandchildren—twins, their names are Scott and Kimberly—and her son lives with her. Jamie."

Bucky started at the name, surprise crossing his face, but underneath it he almost looked pleased. "And Proctor?" he continued, still uncertainly, as if Beatrice's answer had thrown him off-balance.

She paused; this was more difficult to explain. "Unfortunately he's been dead for many years. He was killed during the Vietnam War in the nineteen-sixties."

"Never liked him anyway," Bucky muttered, and while Beatrice tried to tell herself she had heard him wrong, he nodded down at her phone, which she still held loosely in her free hand. "Someone wants to talk to you," he said.

She glanced, disoriented, at it and saw that the screen had indeed lit up and a message was flashing across it. Beatrice looked closely at the sender— _Natasha?_ Her eyes quickly scanned the text as her heart jumped up into her throat:

_48 57 6.815 N 17 53 46.49 E_

"They're coordinates," Beatrice said urgently, hardly daring to breathe. Her first thought was that it was a trap, that Ultron was trying to lure them into coming to find her. But why wouldn't he start with the other Avengers first? Did he even know that she existed? "It's…it's Natasha," she continued, although he hadn't requested an explanation. "Natasha Romanoff. She's gone missing, but I think I know where she is."

Bucky's eyes widened ever so slightly. "The redhead?" he asked.

"Yeah," Beatrice said. She looked up at him unhappily. "She's my niece."

The flabbergasted look on Bucky's face would have been enough to send Beatrice into a fit of uncontrollable laughter any other time, but right now she was too worried to even smile. His eyes flickered behind her to where she assumed Sam was still waiting. "You should go," he said grimly after he had regained control of his expression.

"No—I shouldn't—" Beatrice tried to protest, but she knew that he was right. She wouldn't—couldn't— _not_ try to find Natasha, who was her family whether she liked it or not. And Steve needed her help, too. She couldn't abandon him, no matter what else was happening.

But _still—_ she stared helplessly at Bucky, agonized. "But what about you?" she asked desperately.

"I'll be fine," he told her, and Beatrice believed him. He had, after all, built some semblance of a life here in Romania. He could certainly defend himself, even if Rumlow did decide to return. _I couldn't have stayed with him forever,_ she thought, but every word pierced through her like a knife.

Numbly, Beatrice reached into her pocket for the spare pen Sam had given her on the plane and tore a small piece off of her folder. She quickly jotted down two sets of numbers on it before holding it out to Bucky like an offering. "The first number is mine. The second is Steve's," she said haltingly. "Call either of us if you ever need any help."

Bucky nodded once and reached out to take the paper from her. Their fingers brushed, and a shiver ran down Beatrice's spine. Hesitantly, she twined her fingers around Bucky's until they were holding hands; his own fingers briefly closed over hers and she heard him exhale shakily as his gray eyes stared unwaveringly into her own. He seemed frozen, unable to move.

"I'll come back," Beatrice whispered, and whatever trance they had both been under seemed to dissipate at her words. Bucky took the paper and lowered his hand as Beatrice took a step back. The touch had felt as intimate as a kiss—a promise. Her heart was beating wildly and she knew her face was flushed. She wanted to kiss him so badly it was a physical ache, but she _couldn't._ Not now. It wouldn't be the same—

"Rosie."

Bucky's voice reached her as she turned away. It was soft, almost beseeching. Beatrice stopped in her tracks and gazed back at him. If he continued talking to her, she knew that soon she would no longer be able to leave.

"Don't tell Steve," Bucky said, and there was true desperation in his eyes. "Please."

Beatrice's mind was trying to tear itself in half. How could she _not_ tell Steve about this visit? It would be impossible to keep it a secret. Beatrice wouldn't be able to live with herself. If it had been the other way around—

She would have been hurt, but respected Bucky's decision, and she certainly wouldn't have blamed Steve for choosing not to betray his best friend. So Beatrice took a deep breath and nodded. "I won't," she said.

Sam stood up from the bench as she approached. "What did he say?" he asked guardedly.

Beatrice could feel Bucky still watching her. "He doesn't want Steve to know where is he," she mumbled. "And Natasha sent me this message." She held her phone up at Sam, who looked taken aback.

"Shit," he said matter-of-factly. "That's in Sokovia. Probably in Novi Grad."

"We need to find her," Beatrice ordered, and luckily Sam didn't argue. "How far is that from here?"

"About twelve hours," Sam replied at once. "We can get there tonight if we leave now."

Beatrice turned around once more, but Bucky was gone. It should have been impossible for him to disappear that quickly, but Beatrice was fast learning that there were very few things that were impossible anymore.

"Let's go," she said.


	57. LVII

Beatrice had been to Sokovia once before—during the war, the small country had been the site of one of the field hospital's frequent encampments. She didn't remember much about it, except that there had been an abnormally high number of mosquitos that season and extra precautions had to be taken to ensure that the injured soldiers didn't fall victim to malaria. The nurses had all been made to wear heavier uniforms to prevent bites despite it being the height of summer, and Beatrice swore she could still feel the sweat pouring down her face. It hadn't been a sightseeing trip, as Colonel Phillips would say.

Sam had fortunately managed to procure a car and they'd immediately left Bucharest, only stopping for food once the sun was directly overhead. Beatrice had barely been able to eat; she'd picked at her hamburger while staring at her phone in case another message appeared from Natasha: it didn't.

"Do you think this might be a trap?" she wondered aloud now, casting a worried glance at Sam. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them, but Beatrice saw the muscles in his jaw tighten.

"Maybe," he said. "But it wouldn't be a very good one. Ultron wants the Avengers, not you. And I didn't get a text from her—you'd think he would want as many of us to know where she is as possible. Plus, if anyone can manage to get their hands on a phone, it's Romanoff." He chuckled and shook his head. "Man, Steve is gonna kill me when he finds out about this."

"But why would she contact me out of everyone?"

"You  _are_ her aunt," Sam pointed out good-naturedly.

Beatrice snorted. "We don't exactly have what you'd call a familial relationship."

"Then maybe she knew you were the closest to her," Sam said, too casually. He reached over to turn the dial that flipped through radio stations, but Beatrice continued to stare at him.

"Closest to me?" she repeated. "How would she know that?"

"I, uh, might have told her we were in Romania," Sam admitted, flashing Beatrice a bright, if slightly apologetic, grin. "She called me last night when they were on their way to Seoul. She knew we'd found Barnes. I made her swear not to tell Steve anything," he added for Beatrice's benefit, although she knew very well that Natasha had probably never truthfully sworn to anything. Still, it wasn't the thought of Steve finding out that had her concerned.

"And she trusted  _me_ to help?" Beatrice asked doubtfully. "Knowing I can't even hold my own against someone like Rumlow?"

"Trust might be the wrong word," Sam said after a pause. "She probably knew you would at least try to help." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "And she was right."

Beatrice groaned. "I can't just ignore a message like that," she said. "I became a nurse to help people, even if it seems like they're beyond saving. I have to try. And I have…abilities that might help, even if I don't understand them." She glanced down at her hands, curling her fingers over her knees. "Besides, I don't think Natasha is the only one who needs my help."

"Hey, you don't have to convince me," Sam told her. "And I wouldn't be bringing you into the lions' den if I didn't think we at least had a fighting chance."

She managed a weak smile before turning her head to the window, watching the dense forest flashing past the car. They'd been on the same winding road for what felt like hours, the ancient trees towering forbiddingly over them, branches stretched out to form a canopy that shielded the sky from view. The last sign of life she'd seen had been at the Hungarian border, where a small village that looked taken straight from a postcard had served as the setting for a hurried lunch. They felt so far away from civilization now; far away from Bucky.

Beatrice was constantly wondering if she'd made the right decision to leave him—but she hadn't really  _left_ him, had she? "You should go," he'd said himself. Beatrice knew that she couldn't have spent much longer with him, anyway: something had to give, whether it was on his side or hers. But she had felt so wonderfully, paradoxically  _safe_ with him, as if nothing had changed, Beatrice and Bucky alone against the rest of the world. Just like old times—except it wasn't. Everything had shifted, and even if there was no longer a war raging around them, Bucky was still battling his own mind. In Beatrice's selfish desire to see  _her_ Bucky again, had she projected motives and expressions onto him that were not there? But he had looked so incredibly exhausted, like he was Atlas carrying the entire world on his shoulders—as if he knew he was fighting a battle he was destined to lose but continued on anyway. Even if she hadn't known Bucky like she did, Beatrice was certain that she would have still seen the conflict in his eyes. Instead of being filled with justified rage, a burning desire to tear the remnants of Hydra to the ground, to exact revenge on those who had taken his very self away, Bucky had instead retreated into solitude, determined to escape, to hide somewhere he couldn't be found while he tried to piece together his broken mind. He had even  _saved_ Hydra agents who had done horrific things to him, when there would have been no consequences at all to their deaths.

And that, Beatrice knew, was the definitive proof that Bucky Barnes still existed, that he wasn't the monster Hydra had tried to create. The Winter Soldier did not define him. Steve would have insisted that the Soldier was separate from Bucky, that they were two distinct identities, but Beatrice was familiar enough with Hydra and Zola's work to know that they were, technically, one and the same. She had occasionally seen the coldness in Bucky's eyes, the detachment, though it had never been directed at her. Hydra had forged something out of Bucky he was not, it was true; but they had, as Howard Stark would say, still made use of pre-existing materials. The fact that Bucky felt remorse for what he had done, that he was so visibly haunted by it, made all the difference.

God, he had been so gentle whenever he'd accidentally touched her, as if he was wary of breaking her, as if he feared she would become diseased by touching him. When she'd given him the letter before they parted, he had so hesitantly closed his fingers over hers, brushing against her skin, as if he had wanted to prolong the gesture. He'd looked so confused as to why she was treating him compassionately and hadn't run away screaming. But most of all, he'd looked like he  _remembered,_ and that he hadn't wanted to let go of her.

"If it wasn't Romanoff up there, if it was a stranger…would you still want to do this?" Sam asked, curiosity in his voice as he broke the silence. The implication was clear:  _Would you still have left Barnes?_

Beatrice slowly raised her head and crossed her arms over herself as she pondered the question. It took her longer than she would have liked to come to a conclusion, but she was able to answer him truthfully. "Yes," she said. "I would."

* * *

They stopped for dinner at a restaurant outside Budapest, and while they ate Beatrice glanced up from her salad to realize just how worn out Sam looked. His head was propped up on his elbow and he seemed hardly to notice what he was eating. They'd been driving for the better part of a day, but they still had several more hours ahead of them before they reached Sokovia.

"I can drive the rest of the way," Beatrice offered nonchalantly, grabbing a French fry from Sam's plate and popping it into her mouth.

He regarded her dubiously. "Do you even know how?"

"Theoretically, yes," Beatrice said, purposely avoiding his gaze. "All the nurses had to learn to operate a vehicle during the war. The mechanics don't look all that different today." She'd spoken just loudly enough that the middle-aged couple at a nearby table stared at her for a moment before apparently assuming they'd heard wrong and turning back to their own meal.

Sam dragged a tired hand down his face. Clearly, he was in no mood to protest. "Steve is  _really_ gonna kill me now," he mumbled.

He looked like he was about to fall asleep right then and there, so Beatrice quickly waved over the waitress to pay. On their way out of the restaurant, the male half of the staring couple leaned over to his wife and said in a hushed but audibly American accent, "That's the man who was on the news last month with Captain America."

"One of the Avengers?" his wife asked.

"No, but I heard he can fly. They called him the Falcon."

Beatrice, who had picked up on the conversation and knew it was about to switch to speculation on why they were here and if  _she_ had any connection to Captain America, too, quickly made her exit behind Sam. The last thing she wanted was to be thrown into the public eye right now—although if she continued to spend time with some of the most recognizable faces on the planet, she supposed it ought to happen eventually.

Once they were back in the car, this time with Beatrice behind the wheel, Sam made sure she could be trusted not to drive into a building or another car by making her drive around the parking lot until she was reasonably confident she knew what she was doing. Beatrice was aware that there were a thousand other things he could have taught her, but all she strictly needed to know for now was the steering wheel, gas pedal, brakes, and gearshift. Beatrice's heart was pounding when she finally turned onto the motorway, gripping the wheel as if her life depended on it. Every time a vehicle passed them she would flinch and look over at Sam, who nodded in silent encouragement. She was so focused on the road that she barely had enough concentration to worry about anything else other than making sure they didn't crash.

The traffic began to thin out as they travelled further north, and Beatrice felt herself relaxing as she slowly grew used to driving. "Not so bad now, huh?" she asked Sam, but when she didn't receive a response she briefly glanced over at him: his head lolled against the back of his seat and his eyes were closed as he snored quietly. Beatrice couldn't help but grin.

Eventually the grassy fields and cow-pastures gave way to hilly terrain and more forest, the towns growing smaller and farther apart. When they finally crossed the border into Sokovia, the deep blue of twilight had given way to the inky blackness of night, and Beatrice felt a rush of relief as she checked the time: they had been driving for just over twelve hours, earlier than she'd expected. It would be more difficult to search for Natasha when it was dark, but at least they were here, Beatrice thought.

She followed the signs that led into Novi Grad, grateful that they were in English, and soon found herself staring down at a city tucked in the foothills of a seemingly endless mountain range, their rugged edges and snowcapped peaks jutting into the sky. It was a beautiful sight, but it reminded Beatrice unpleasantly of Austria and her impossible journey across the Alps to find Bucky, the imagined sight of him lying bleeding in the snow after falling from the train. She instinctively shuddered away from it and forced herself back to the present, where the distant lights of the Sokovian capital shone, half-hidden between the mountains. The scene looked calm and peaceful, with nothing at all to suggest that anything was amiss or that Ultron was nearby.

The road they were on continued to lead uphill through the twisting peaks, and it was only when the light from Novi Grad disappeared below them that Beatrice began to grow suspicious. She pulled off onto the gravel shoulder, pressing on the brakes a bit too hard so that the car abruptly jerked to a stop. Sam finally jolted awake at the sudden halt, blinking sleepily at her.

"Whoa," he said in groggy surprise. "How long was I out for?"

"About three hours," Beatrice replied. She gestured at the blackness surrounding them. "We're in Sokovia—Novi Grad's ten minutes away. I don't know where this road leads."

Sam reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a map, matching their current location to Natasha's coordinates. "There's a Hydra base right up the mountain," he said. "Looks like the coordinates lead us straight there."

Beatrice felt a stirring of unease. "Right here?" she asked. "Is this where the Avengers found the scepter?"

"Yep," Sam replied grimly. "Guess Ultron's made it his base now."

She squinted in the direction he was pointing, and just managed to make out the outline of a sprawling brick fortress looming over the city below, its windows like eyes glaring down at them. Beatrice didn't think she had ever seen such a forbidding building. "Subtlety was never Hydra's forte," she muttered, glancing over at Sam, who had removed his seatbelt and was opening the door. "Where are you going?" she asked, alarmed.

"Up there," he said. "It'll be easier to sneak in if we start from here."

Beatrice's eyes widened as she followed him outside. It was colder up here, and eerily quiet: not even the crickets were chirping. Her ears rang with the deafening silence as her mind tried to create noises that weren't there. "How?" she asked, hoping she sounded braver than she felt.

Sam strode around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. "I have wings, remember?" he said with a grin.

"But  _I_ don't!"

"That's why I hope you're not afraid of heights." He flashed a bright grin at her as he strapped on his mechanical wings and jetpack; Beatrice had no idea how he was able to find levity in any situation. She was nonetheless grateful for it. "I'll drop you off and sweep the perimeter," he explained, slipping on a pair of goggles. "If there's no one around we'll go inside together."

Beatrice gulped. "You're leaving me alone?" she asked nervously.

"Not for long. Besides, I'm sure you can handle it. I brought you here, remember?" There was a slight teasing note in Sam's voice. Beatrice had to admit that she hadn't made plans for this far ahead, and he was much more experienced in reconnaissance than her. So she swallowed back her fear and moved toward him, thinking that just twenty-four hours ago, she had been sleeping on Bucky's couch. How quickly everything could change.

"What do I do?" she asked warily as Sam peered over the edge of the cliff, seeming unfazed by the dizzying drop.

"Grab my hand and don't let go," he instructed. "We're gonna try a running start."

Beatrice took hold of his wrist and squeezed as hard as she could when Sam extended his arm out to her. She knew, logically, that he wouldn't let her fall, and it was preferable to make the journey at night when she couldn't see just how high up they were, but that didn't stop her nerves from going into overdrive anyway.

Without warning, Sam launched himself off the edge of the mountain, pulling Beatrice along with him. An involuntary scream left her mouth as she was violently thrown forward into nothingness, with only air under her feet, her hair whipping back and her eyes watering at the force of the wind rushing past them. Her stomach dropped and she struggled to close her eyes as her other arm came up to grip Sam's hand. The gears in his wings whirred loudly next to her ears and she could feel the heat from his jetpack blowing against her face, but she didn't dare to move her head. All she could do was pretend that she was simply on a ride at Coney Island, that it was Bucky she was hanging onto and they were only feet from the ground—

"We're here!" Sam called back to her, and Beatrice tumbled onto solid ground again, her knees buckling as she felt smooth stone under her feet. It had barely lasted for a minute, but to Beatrice the flight had felt like an hour.

"I don't know how you can do that," she said with a grimace, reluctantly getting to her feet. "The only thing worse would be if you'd dropped me in the ocean."

"You're a lot lighter than Steve," Sam replied as he strode over to her, kicking at a loose stone. Lifting up his goggles, he began to examine their surroundings, and Beatrice followed suit. The dim light radiating off her phone screen was enough to make out a courtyard of some sort—a courtyard that hadn't been touched in decades by the looks of it. Weeds had grown between the cracks in the aged brick under their feet, and patches of ivy snaked along the side of the facility, completely covering some of the windows. This place ought to have been beautiful once, Beatrice thought. A fortress protecting the town below them, or perhaps a magnificent castle built for royalty. Whatever it had been, it clearly predated Hydra. Just like they had done with Castle Zemo in Belgium, Hydra had wrapped their tentacles around a once-elegant dwelling and turned it into a shadow of what it used to be. Like Bucky, and perhaps even Beatrice herself.

"See if you can find a way inside," Sam called to her. "I'm gonna make sure that nobody else is around."

Beatrice didn't want to be left alone, but she also couldn't argue with his logic, so she simply nodded and watched him disappear with a growing sense of trepidation, his wings spread like some enormous bird. Now she was left without the only other person she trusted in the country—on the continent, even. A flashing icon on her phone informed her that she no longer had service, and her sense of isolation increased tenfold.

Beatrice paced along the walls, searching for a door or gap in the brick that would allow them to get inside without using a main entrance. Their only option appeared to be a small window ten feet above her with its glass shattered and strewn across the ground underneath, as if some sort of explosion inside had caused it to burst outward. The gap was barely wide enough for even Beatrice to squeeze through, but if she could somehow get inside she might be able to find something more suitable for Sam.

She waited another hopeful minute for him to return, but after there was still no sign of him Beatrice reluctantly resigned herself to her fate. Taking several steps backward, she gritted her teeth and stared warily at the window. It was nearly three times her height, so if there was any appropriate time to hope that Zola's serum was at least partially useful, this was it. Beatrice took a running start, sprinting as fast as she could towards the wall before bending her knees and jumping straight up with as much force as she possibly could.

She half-expected to find herself hurtling back down to the ground, but her fingers caught and held on the ledge, knocking stray pieces of glass to the stone below. With extreme effort, Beatrice managed to pull herself up by her arms, inch by inch, her muscles straining, until she was able to swing her leg over the edge of the sill and straighten up into a sitting position. There were tiny pieces of glass embedded in her palms, and she took another minute to carefully pick them out before dusting her fingers on her jeans and peering inside.

It was completely pitch-black, but her eyes quickly adjusted and she was left staring down a long, narrow corridor, a cool draft blowing from outside and no signs of life within, not even a mouse scurrying across the floor. There were no other windows or doors anywhere in sight.

Her heart thudding, Beatrice slowly lowered herself inside, landing in a crouch and hearing glass crunch under her feet. The walls were heavy with dust and her footsteps echoed back at her. It was so silent that she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She suddenly wished she had some sort of weapon, even just to defend herself.

 _But you_ are  _a weapon,_ her mind whispered nastily.  _It's what Zola wanted to make you. That's the only reason why Hydra didn't just let you die._

Beatrice felt her fingers curling into fists and halted while she forced away the intrusive thoughts. "All this power, and yet you shy away from it," Thor had told her once, shortly after her arrival at Avengers Tower. He'd sounded puzzled, as if he had found the notion difficult to comprehend. And Beatrice  _did_ shy away from it. She hadn't wanted any of the abilities the Tesseract or the serum had cursed her with. They were marks of Hydra's experimentation on her, a constant reminder that she was different, that maybe she wasn't as human as she thought she was. The only other person alive who could understand her isolation was Bucky, but Beatrice couldn't confide in him, not when he had experienced so much worse than she had. Telling him about her conflict would sound as though she was cheapening his plight, his time as the Winter Soldier, when Beatrice had gone through no similar thing and couldn't even begin to imagine it.

And yet, at the same time, Bucky hadn't been experimented on with the Tesseract and developed powers that were far beyond human capabilities, powers that were magical in nature. He had no abilities that were beyond the realm of human understanding. Neither did Steve, or Sam, or Natasha, or even Tony Stark. Beatrice didn't want to be reminded of what Hydra had done to her every time she looked in the mirror.

But she wasn't the only one, was she? There were two others, the twins Steve had told her about, the ones Strucker had experimented on with the scepter—Pietro and Wanda Maximoff. Had they been trapped here, in this fortress, locked in a cell like her and Bucky? But they had volunteered for this; they had wanted to exact revenge on Tony because Stark Industries had manufactured the bomb that killed their parents. But had they even known it was Hydra at first? Steve had said they were only teenagers.

But they had still allied with Ultron. And if Steve was to be believed, Pietro could move faster than the speed of sound and Wanda had some sort of telepathic ability. Beatrice wouldn't stand a chance against either of them, the other two Enhanced, no matter how similar they might be—

Her throat was suddenly seized by cold metal, an impossibly strong pressure crushing her windpipe. Beatrice had been standing motionless for so long that she hadn't been paying attention to her surroundings. She stumbled backwards, choking, her fingers scrabbling at the vicelike grip around her neck. She threw her elbow back but was met with resistance, her struggles only serving to make her foe's grip increase. Beatrice went limp, her arms falling to her sides, and she sagged to the floor, this time slipping easily out of her captor's grip. She immediately brought her leg whirling around in a sweeping kick like she'd learned at Camp Lehigh; her opponent stumbled backward and hit the opposite wall, and Beatrice leapt to her feet and stared down at—a  _robot?_

It was crudely built, its limbs sticking out at odd angles, its proportions too exaggerated for it to make any pretense at being human. But her attack had left barely a scratch on it, and before Beatrice's horrified gaze it raised itself to an upright position far more quickly than a human could, its eyes glowing a bright, sickly red. It had a vaguely humanlike figure—that is, arms, legs, and a head—but that was where the resemblances stopped. Two bulbs were narrowed down at her in a hideous mockery of eyes. Its skin was a gleaming metallic surface and the clank of metal as it took a step toward her reverberated off the walls.

"Beatrice Hartley," a deep voice said. Its voice was menacing and oddly artificial, as if someone was speaking through a machine, but there was a noticeable hint of derisive amusement in it. "I was wondering when I would get the chance to meet you."

"Ultron," she whispered, terrified.

"Not quite." The robot stopped in front of her, tilting its head to the side in an almost curious manner. "But that's of no importance right now. We're here to talk about you!" Ultron extended one long finger to point at her chest. Beatrice couldn't move. "Hydra's first successful guinea pig. In a sense, you paved the way for all of this, and for that I thank you." Ultron gestured around them, his eyes lighting up as he became more focused on his speech. "If Strucker was still around, I'm sure he'd say the same. Without your doctor's notes, he never would have been able to experiment on the Maximoff twins. I'm sure they'd thank you too if they were here, but even the best-laid plans go awry…"

"How do you know who I am?" Beatrice asked, praying that she could stall him long enough for Sam to find her.

Ultron chuckled; the sound was as menacing as it was unexpected. "I know everything about you, Beatrice. Even things you don't know about yourself." He took another step toward her and Beatrice felt her back press against cold stone. She was trapped.

Ultron had fixed his unblinking stare on her, close enough to grab her by the throat again. She tensed, but his tone had taken on an almost musing quality. "For example, I know that you have powers and no idea how to use them. I know you're here to rescue your niece. And I know you showed up before the others because you were in Romania with the Winter Soldier. I'm not sure why you'd want to be with him after what he did to your uncle, but humans are extremely irrational—"

"Stop," said Beatrice, who had gone rigid at the mention of Bucky. A thin layer of sweat coated her palms. "What did you say about my uncle?"

Ultron's eyes widened; the effect was so strange it was almost comical. "You mean you don't know?" he asked in exaggerated surprise. "Oh, dear…"

A red haze suddenly covered her vision, and Beatrice lunged at the robot, knocking him back against the wall. Ultron's arm came up to block her, but Beatrice grabbed his wrist and pushed it back down, straining as he fought against her with extraordinary strength—

She dug her elbow into the joint between his shoulders and neck, her limbs shaking as she twisted the metal as far away from her as it would go—and then Ultron's head was suddenly in her hands, his decapitated body still twitching. She watched in horror as the light in his eyes briefly flickered blue before going out entirely. "St—stalling…" he said in a slurred voice, unable to finish his sentence.

The surge of uncontrollable anger that had overtaken her had vanished, and Beatrice was left breathing hard and somehow more confused than she had been before; her heart was pounding wildly. The last time she had been seized by that mindless fury had been when Zola was taunting her about Bucky's fall. Ultron was just doing the same thing—

But before Beatrice could follow his words to their natural conclusion, the sound of distant, clanking metal made her look up, and cold ice flooded her veins as an army of robots came striding into the corridor, identical to the one she had just fought. They moved in synchronized, jerky movements, with glowing blue eyes that flooded the hallway with light.

She glanced frantically around, but she was too far from the window—her eyes landed on the dismantled Ultron head, the only other item in sight. Raising a trembling arm, she mustered all her powers of concentration to raise it until it was levitating several feet in the air, her teeth gritting as she focused, before tossing her arm back and hurling it in the direction of the other robots. Warmth shot through her fingertips and up into her arm; she was nearly thrown back by the force of the energy that burst outward from her hand.

"Get out of here, Beatrice!"

Sam's voice echoed behind her and she whirled around to see him swooping through the window behind her. He raised his arm and miniature projectiles shot from his suit indiscriminately into the army of automatons; they were no match for him as they crumpled to the ground like tin soldiers.

"Took you long enough!" Beatrice called to him over the noise, ducking out of the way.

"The sentries are surrounding the place!" Sam yelled back as he landed next to her, his wings neatly folding up inside his suit. "I had to take care of them first. I don't know where Ultron is, but he's gotta be close by."

Beatrice's mouth fell open. "That wasn't even Ultron?" she said in disbelief.

"Nope," Sam replied grimly. "He's built an army from Hydra's scraps. Steve said he can upload his consciousness into any of them at will." He nodded ahead of them. "There's a heat signature down there. I'm guessing it's Romanoff."

"All right," Beatrice said, still shaken. As they began to make their way down the corridor, stepping over discarded robot parts, Sam pulled a second handgun from his harness and handed it to Beatrice.

"You might need this," he said, with no hint of amusement on his face.

"Thanks," she said carefully, fighting the urge to throw it away as far as she could. Something inside her recoiled at the sight of the gun; she was certain she wouldn't be able to pull the trigger even if her life was on the line.

* * *

Sam led her down several flights of stairs and through numerous labyrinthine, twisting passages until Beatrice was sure they were just going in circles. The entire fortress was a maze, as if it had been specifically designed to be as convoluted and confusing as possible; Beatrice knew that she wouldn't have been able to find Natasha alone. She kept her index finger on the trigger of the gun Sam had given her, but they didn't encounter anyone else, robot or human. She knew they were underground when the air began to grow heavier and light was no longer fighting its way in between cracks in the bricks.

Just as she was about to ask Sam how much longer it would take, he stopped in front of a seemingly innocuous brick wall at the base of a short staircase. With a grunt of effort, he shoved it with his shoulder and, to Beatrice's surprise, the wall—which was actually a door—slid aside, revealing a previously unknown passageway beyond. "She should be in here," he said, and Beatrice cautiously followed him inside, unsure what she would find.

"Holy shit," Sam breathed as soon as they entered, in awe of the massive dungeon chamber they were standing in. Beatrice blinked rapidly as she took in the enormous space surrounding them; she couldn't believe it was possible for such a place to be built entirely underground—it must span the entire area of the fortress. In the middle of the chamber was a vast gaping hole, at least a hundred feet across. Beatrice cautiously peered over the edge and stared into the void; there didn't seem to be an end to it from what she could tell. She had never seen something like it in her life; there was no obvious purpose as to what the chamber was used for or what it housed.

But Beatrice was more concerned by the sight of a cell in the nearest corner; beyond the bars was a head of familiar red hair. Leaving Sam to marvel at the cavernous space, Beatrice raced over to Natasha, her shoes slipping and sliding on the puddles of water seeping across the ground.

The other woman looked tired and worn; her catsuit was covered in dirt and there was a half-healed scrape on her cheek, but her eyes were still fierce. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd show up," she said, though her voice lacked its usual smooth confidence. Beatrice glanced around and, seeing no key, motioned for Natasha to move out of the way before she raised her gun and aimed it at the spot where the brick met the metal bars. She flinched away as it fired, surprised by the force of the shot, but she had done little more than knock over a brick. Thankfully, Natasha was more adept than Beatrice; she easily reached through the gap and pushed aside the bars. Beatrice was more than happy to hand over the gun, and Natasha tucked it into the holster on her hip.

"Are you all right?" Beatrice asked. "Did you contact the others?"

"Yeah," Natasha said, seemingly answering both questions. "I sent Clint my coordinates via Morse code, but I knew you'd get here faster than them." She cocked her head at Beatrice. "I'm kinda surprised you came, actually, but I knew Sam would help."

"I couldn't leave my family," Beatrice said. It was the first time they'd mentioned their connection out loud, and she saw the hint of a genuine smile on Natasha's face. "Any idea what Ultron's planning?"

The redhead slowly nodded. "He's used Hydra's prototypes to build an army of robots that will obey his orders. He's obsessed with meteors; according to him, the best way to change something is to destroy and rebuild it. He mentioned wanting to cause an extinction-level event. I don't think it's that difficult to figure out what he's trying to do." She sounded clinical, as if she was merely reading off a list. Perhaps it was a technique to distract herself from the situation at hand.

"That's not good," Beatrice muttered, although her mind was only half-focused on Natasha's words. She was still thinking about what Ultron had almost told her—she  _needed_  to know —and she was willing to bet the other woman had answers. "Listen," she said in a low voice so that Sam couldn't hear, "Ultron said that the Winter Soldier did something to my— _our_ —uncle. Ivan Romanov," Beatrice said, the question implicit in her words. She was aware she was staring at Natasha, silently imploring her to answer in the contrary, but—

Natasha's face went blank, and Beatrice's worst fears were confirmed. She took half a second longer to respond before she slowly spoke in that same flat, emotionless voice. "Henry thinks Ivan discovered Hydra's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. So they had to get rid of him."

Beatrice felt a rush of dizziness, so overwhelming she felt nauseous, and she staggered backwards, gripping the bars of the cell to steady herself. "No," she whispered, a whimper escaping her lips.  _"No."_ The Winter Soldier had killed Ivan. Bucky had killed her uncle.

Natasha knelt down beside her, something like concern in her eyes, but she had barely started speaking when there was a low rumble far below them, like an earthquake, like the ground itself was shifting. The reverberations rocked Beatrice's body, causing her to lose her balance and automatically throw another steadying hand out, but she barely noticed the movement. Next to her, Natasha swore and called over to Sam, "We need to get out of here."

Through the dull haze that clouded her mind, Beatrice felt Natasha urgently shaking her shoulder, forcing her to move. "Come on," she ordered, and Beatrice had no choice but to numbly follow her.


	58. LVIII

"What the hell is going on?" Sam shouted at Natasha as the three of them fought their way up the stairs to higher ground. The earth shuddered again, and a crack snaked its way through the ceiling above them, rocks and dirt raining onto their heads, filling up the cavernous pit they'd left behind.

"If I knew, I would tell you!" Natasha called back to him. She was in the lead, her fingers curled on the handle of her pistol in case Ultron's sentries ambushed them again. Beatrice staggered along behind her, not yet having grasped the enormity of the danger they were in. Her mind was still stuck on Bucky and the horrible knowledge that he had killed Ivan.

She would have taken anything— _anything—_ but the burden of that, the thought of Bucky firing the shot that ended her uncle's life and prevented S.H.I.E.L.D.'s knowledge of Hydra's infiltration. Henry had described to her how he had held Ivan's body in his arms, trying desperately to staunch the blood pouring from his gunshot wound, helpless to do anything but watch: it was a sight Beatrice was all too familiar with. God, did Bucky even  _remember?_ Or was Ivan just another name on the list of targets for him? Did Henry know? He couldn't have, Beatrice tried to reason with herself. Nobody knew the Winter Soldier was Bucky Barnes aside from her, Natasha, Sam, Fury, and Steve—

Did  _Steve_ know?

The thought of Steve knowing the truth about Ivan's murder and not telling her sent a wave of cold nausea through Beatrice, and she stopped short, leaning back against the crumbling wall, taking quick, shallow breaths. The ground heaved under them again, and this time an enormous chunk of rock from the ceiling broke apart and collapsed onto the bottom of the stairs, blocking their view of the cavern in the ground and the cell Natasha had been imprisoned in. Beatrice swayed on her feet and shook the dust from her hair, covering her mouth with her arm as she began to cough.

"If we don't leave now, this place is going to cave in on us," Natasha said from beside her, having doubled back when she'd seen the other woman pause. Her voice held an undercurrent of anxiety Beatrice had never heard before. "Look, there's no use in worrying about Barnes now. It was fifty years ago—"

"Does Steve know?" Beatrice asked. Her voice was quiet over the rumbling of the chamber, but Natasha still heard.

"No," she said, her eyes never wavering from Beatrice's. "I promise. Ultron is able to process every single byte of data that flows through the Internet—data even Stark can't access, let alone Rogers. He probably knows more about us than we know about ourselves."

This offered only the barest amount of comfort to Beatrice, and she nodded shakily, trying to pull herself together. Her heart was pounding madly, a sick knot of dread in the pit of her stomach. She needed time alone to think—to process—but her surroundings were in such chaos that her mind kept skipping over the same horrified thoughts like a damaged record, telling her that  _of course_ Hydra had killed Ivan, that his death hadn't been an accident, and of course they would send their best assassin to do the job—

"In case you haven't noticed, we're about to be buried alive!" Sam shouted in her ear. "Let's go, Beatrice!" He grabbed her hand and began pulling her up the stairs; Natasha had somehow gotten ahead of them again, and Beatrice kept her eyes fixed on her niece's bob of red hair, grayer now with dust, but it was a marker to push towards, as if she was following a beacon through heavy fog.

They had barely reached the top of the stairs when the compound's entire foundation collapsed completely, raining down rocks and debris with a thunderous roar. At some point Beatrice's hand lost Sam's in the chaos, and remembering her army training, threw herself onto the ground, her hands over her head to protect her skull, expecting to be crushed any second.

But it never came, and after what felt like a minute stretching into eternity, Beatrice cautiously raised her head, all her senses on high alert. She was sitting in a pile of rocks that nearly covered her entirely, the remnants of the fortress's once-impenetrable walls. From what she could see, only part of it had collapsed—as luck would have it, right on top of her. Fortunately, however, she appeared to be unhurt except for a bleeding cut on her forehead, which she swiped away with one hand as she got to her feet. The rumbling had ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that was just as terrifying in its own right. The pale purple light of dawn cast a deceptively calm glow over the area. There was no sign of either Sam or Natasha.

Beatrice began to wade through the debris, searching frantically for her companions. Kicking aside bricks, she knelt down and began searching through the rubble, looking for anything that might help her. They couldn't be too far from where she had fallen. "Sam! Natasha!" she called hoarsely, her voice high-pitched and tinny as it echoed across the mountain range back to her.

Her eyes caught on a vast, gaping hole where there shouldn't be one, and with her heart in her throat, sprinted past heaps of fallen boulders to where she saw, in horror, a long, splintering fissure had cracked open the ground, as bottomless as the pit inside the fortress had been. It had to be twice as wide as the other one—there was no way that even Beatrice could have a hope of jumping to the other side. It stretched in both directions as far as she could see, as deep as if God himself had drawn a dividing line between two opposing halves of the earth. Beatrice kicked a handful of stones over the edge and waited for them to hit the bottom, but there was no sound from the depths of the fissure. Maybe it went all the way to the center of the earth.

There was sudden movement on the opposite side, and Beatrice was instantly flooded with relief as she saw Natasha and Sam stirring from where they appeared to have taken shelter behind a large boulder. Beatrice stared across the abyss as Sam pulled off his harness to reveal that one of his wings had been crushed, rendering him unable to fly. Any hope of Beatrice joining them was instantly snuffed out.

"Get back to the car!" Sam shouted over at her, while Natasha bit her lip in something like worry as she began to pace back and forth like a caged animal. "Drive as far away from here as you can."

"I can't leave you!" Beatrice called back in desperation. She began to mirror Natasha's pacing, searching for a weak spot in the ground. "Maybe if I try to jump—"

"No."

This was Natasha now, carefully coiled fury in her voice. "It's too dangerous," she said. "Even Enhanced, you'll never make it across. Sam I will find the others and get help."

It was as much of an order as it was a plea, and Beatrice had no choice but to agree with this plan. Something told her that Natasha would keep her word—if not for Beatrice herself, then for Henry.

"Okay, fine, then, just stay here," Sam said after a glance at Natasha. "We'll come back for you."

Beatrice could do nothing else but nod and watch helplessly as they began to run up the steep ravine toward a dense patch of forest and beyond that, Novi Grad. Something like despair washed over her when Sam and Natasha disappeared into the treeline, leaving her alone in the ruins of this Hydra base. She couldn't do anything to help—telekinesis was useless here, unless she had the strength to forcibly join the earth together again. Maybe she should return to the car after all and see if there was another way over—

The silence was abruptly broken by a roar that caused Beatrice's heart to turn over in her chest, a sudden, primal fear surging through her. She whirled around, eyes wide, her gaze frantically raking the treetops for the source of the noise. Her body tensed as she prepared to sprint as fast as the serum would allow her back to the car.

And then an enormous green beast came hurtling out of the forest, a giant that was ripped straight from the pages of Greek mythology, a monster in one of Hercules' twelve labors. Beatrice was suddenly frozen to the spot, gaping in mingled horror and disbelief at the Hulk: she had never seen him before now. There was no trace of the mild-mannered Bruce Banner in this creature, in the inhuman snarl that ripped between the Hulk's teeth, sounding like a lion and tiger and bear in one animal, at the eight and a half feet of muscle and sinew and pure, unbridled strength.

And all Beatrice could think was,  _My God, this is Mrs. Banner's grandson._

With two vast strides, the Hulk lunged forward on legs as thick as tree trunks and launched himself over the widening gap that separated them, landing with a force that shook the ground. Beatrice was too terrified to move, recalling the news coverage she had seen about Johannesburg, Bruce's own assertion that his alter ego was dangerous and unpredictable—

But the Hulk didn't immediately move to attack her: instead, he paused in front of her, his breathing heavy, his expression one of almost childlike curiosity. His arm was the length of Beatrice's entire body and twice as thick. She stared at him, her heart thudding noisily against her ribs, a deer staring down a hunter.

A long, tense moment passed before he suddenly grunted and shook his mane of shaggy dark hair, crouching down to her level. Somewhere, in the part of her mind that wasn't currently paralyzed by fear, Beatrice understood that he was trying to communicate with her. She was careful not to make any sudden movements as she asked, "Can you help me get across?"

The Hulk grunted again and nodded, lowering his head so that she could grab onto his arm. It took Beatrice another minute before she was able to force herself to move and hesitantly swung up onto his shoulder, one hand braced on his neck to steady herself.

They didn't waste any time: before she could even possibly begin to prepare herself, the Hulk had straightened up and taken another great leap over the crevasse. Beatrice squeaked in terror, her grip tightening on him, but it was much shorter than her flight with Sam had been, and they had mercifully already landed on the other side before she lost her balance and tumbled unceremoniously onto the ground again, landing hard on her side. Unprepared for the sheer force of the impact, she rolled forward several feet before managing to halt her momentum and push herself up into a sitting position. The Hulk was watching her, seemingly proud of himself.

"Thank you," Beatrice told him as evenly as she could, considering the situation. How could he have known that she was to be trusted? The Hulk had never seen her before…either he was less of a monster than everyone claimed he was, or Bruce wasn't completely extinguished after all.

He bared his teeth wide in something that almost resembled a grin before he turned and bounded back into the forest as quickly as he appeared, leaving Beatrice to wonder if she had just imagined the encounter. But she was on the other side now, and that was all that mattered. Sam and Natasha would be returning soon, and she had to find them before they wasted valuable time trying to help her.

But before she could get to her feet again, the ground tilted under her, and a low, dull roar filled her ears again—the sound of an earthquake, the shifting of tectonic plates. It was even louder than it had been in the fortress. Beatrice rolled onto her side, and horror swept through her entire body as she realized she could no longer  _see_ the fortress, or the mountains beyond.

She stumbled to her feet and ran over to the abyss, air rushing past her ears, only to stop when she saw it below her.  _Below_ her—the land was rising, and Beatrice with it, as if it was being lifted into the air by an invisible force. The mountains that surrounded the fortress were fast growing smaller as they continued to rise, and now she could see the car she and Sam had left behind, a small dot on the twisting road.

She remembered what Natasha had told her about Ultron's obsession with meteors, the oddity of the massive crater in the center of the dungeon, and it suddenly struck Beatrice what Ultron was trying to do.

He was going to use Sokovia as his meteor.

Reeling back in horror, Beatrice turned her back on the sight and began to run toward the forest, in the direction of Novi Grad. If she had seen the Hulk, it was more than likely the rest of the Avengers were here already. She had to warn them.

Beatrice tore through the trees, branches whipping past her face, nearly tripping over fallen logs. It was an uphill climb, and thankfully the serum enabled her to keep running when she normally would have had to stop, the steep incline even more apparent as they rose higher, the clouds growing visibly closer. The air would eventually grower thinner, and even she wouldn't be able to avoid that. She might be able to survive with less air in her lungs than usual, but she still had to breathe.

It felt like hours had passed by the time she reached the crest of the hill, but it had probably only been minutes. The city stretched out in front of her, its brightly colored roofs and whitewashed stone buildings already crumbling to pieces, apartment complexes like the ones in Bucharest tumbling off the side of the rising island and falling into empty air. Beatrice had been right: the abyss extended a half-mile radius around Novi Grad, leaving its residents trapped and with no way to escape—but if Ultron had his way, those still on the ground were hardly better off. She could hear the sounds of screaming and crashes from the collapsing buildings, and the streets were flooded with terrified citizens. The city was in chaos.

Although her first thought had been to find the others, it was impossible to ignore the cries of the helpless Sokovians as they scrambled to find a shelter that wasn't in danger of collapsing on them, the panicked shouts of the wounded. Beatrice was suddenly on the battlefield again, her apron streaked with blood, trying desperately to revive the soldiers, boys who were barely older than her. Ultron believed that war was the cost of peace, but Beatrice knew the real truth: history wasn't a line but a circle, curving back in on itself like an ouroboros, a snake devouring its own tail, and history would never be ages of peace interspersed with flashes of war, but peace merely serving as a bridge between wars. And she knew the truth of that in every cell of her body, every unnatural heartbeat.

Somewhere in the distance, an old air raid siren began to wail its alarm, and fear abruptly seized Beatrice. She had heard that sound far too many times before, huddled in the barracks of the SSR's London base, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

She was sprinting into the outskirts of Novi Grad before her brain had given any conscious commands, shouting to be heard over the wail of the siren. "Go!" she screamed. "Run! Get as far away from here as you can!"

But it was too late: an explosion hit somewhere very close by, and the sound waves pummeled everything in its path, knocking the breath out of Beatrice as the earth shook again, a piece of the rising land mass breaking apart from the rest. Glass fell like rain from above, the buildings lining the streets bursting apart from within by the force of the blast. Rubble lined the road, glass shards coating the ground like water.

Those who were unlucky enough to be caught in the middle of the destruction were taking cover in any place they could get: through the blasted doors of buildings, behind overturned cars, even inside the cars. Sokovia was used to civil war, but this was far beyond that. This wasn't even war. This was annihilation.

Beatrice sprinted as fast as she could down the road, her shoes slippery with blood and her ears ringing from the sound of the blast. Her eyes watered from the smoke pouring into the streets, and she blinked furiously to clear her blurred vision but didn't slow, praying desperately that the serum would get her through this. Someone yelled after her in Sokovian, clearly telling her to take cover, but she didn't have the luxury of listening to their advice. Something was digging into her foot that slashed her with every step—she had landed on a piece of glass and there was blood sloshing around her foot, but at the moment her injuries were the least of her concern. She thought she saw lightning split the sky somewhere in the distance, although the day was perfectly clear.

Beatrice rounded a corner so fast that she didn't have time to see another explosion rock the very foundation of the buildings around her, and she was instantly thrown to the ground, tumbling into the middle of the street as rubble rained down onto her. She screamed, but her voice was lost on the wind. She put her hands to her face and drew them back; they were covered with blood. She couldn't hear a thing, and her entire body was shaking.

_I don't want to die,_ she thought frantically, struggling to push herself up onto her elbows. Her clothes were caked in dirt and ash, pieces of foundation from the exploded building covering her.  _I should have died in the Alps searching for Bucky. But Steve was right—life gave me a second chance. This can't be how it ends._

Blood had soaked through her shoe and was trickling from a gash on her forehead—but her attention was fixed on an arm lying in the middle of the rubble surrounding her—an arm that didn't belong to her. She had seen far worse in the war, but this was a civilian, an innocent, someone who hadn't signed up for any of this bloodshed. She would have vomited if there was anything left in her stomach.

Beatrice inched forward, limb by limb, until she was clawing at the ground with her fingernails. She didn't even know herself why she was still fighting when she knew she had already lost, except for a hazy notion in her conscience that told her the Avengers deserved it. She wouldn't be fighting this hard just to save herself.

Dimly, she registered that the sun had been blocked out from above her, but she didn't have the strength left to move. Something was looming over her—she could see its shadows cast across the street, across her body—and she squinted up at the enormous figure that her confused brain tried desperately to understand.

The sentries at the fortress had been intimidating, if only by their sheer numbers—but now this was Ultron, the real Ultron, as tall as the Hulk, with limbs that shone with vibranium and glowing red eyes. Beatrice knew that she wouldn't be able to overpower him, not even if she was in perfect condition.

"This is…a valiant effort," Ultron said as he stood over her, a peculiar gleaming intelligence in his eyes. "Which one of them are you trying to save?"

Beatrice opened her mouth, only to choke on the taste of something thick and metallic—she was biting her lip so hard she'd drawn blood. She wiped it away with the back of her sleeve and struggled to her feet. Ultron didn't move to stop her. "All of them," she snarled, not knowing or caring whether he meant the Avengers or the terrified people that surrounded them.

Ultron tilted his head to one side, a curiously human gesture, as if he was assessing her. "You are dedicated, I'll give you that," he mused. "But how can you do that when you can't even save yourself?"

Beatrice wasn't sure even the Norn Stone could have foreseen what happened next. A powerful jolt went through her, a surge of something raw and dizzying, something that shocked her entire body, sparking through her veins and roaring up inside her like a tidal wave. She was powerless to stop it, to control it—she was merely the conductor of this terrible electricity, simmering in her blood, waiting, until it was finally unleashed. A blue haze covered her vision.

Ultron understood what was happening before Beatrice did; he was suddenly gone, speeding away through the air, out of her reach, and a dozen of his sentries came running at her, pouring out of the ruined buildings like cockroaches.

The force of the Tesseract's power slammed into them in a blast of electric blue, bursting them apart like toy soldiers and stopping them in their tracks. One by one, their glowing eyes flickered and died as Ultron's consciousness left them. Beatrice's hands were blazing with light, her fingers curled in a shower of sparks, her silhouette glowing bright blue. She felt this— _power—_ rushingthrough her, unlike anything else she'd ever experienced. This was something far greater than herself; far greater than any human.

And just like that, it faded, receding back into itself, into her skin. Beatrice was left panting in the middle of the street, her arms still held aloft, still bleeding, an ordinary girl once again. She was surrounded by the shells of Ultron's sentries, but their master was nowhere to be seen.

She was struck by a wave of exhausted dizziness, her muscles shaking as if using her power had sucked every last bit of strength out of her. She forced herself to stay upright, this time pulling the power from Zola's serum to keep herself standing. All around her, people were beginning to move, to pull themselves out of their hiding places now that the danger had passed. The Sokovians were staring in shock at her as if unable to believe what they had just witnessed. She knew what they were seeing: a plain, skinny girl with eyes that were neither brown nor green and stringy dark hair. She was far from the savior they were hoping for, with none of the power of Thor or the strength of Steve or the confidence of Natasha—she was just  _Beatrice._

A faint groan from somewhere nearby caused Beatrice to snap out of her daze, recognizing the exclamation of someone in pain. She slowly lowered her hands, guiltily relieved that someone else was in need of help and she didn't have to think about what had just happened yet. The sudden fire inside of her had burned itself out.

Another pained moan sounded from across the street, and Beatrice hurried toward the noise, picking her way through the rubble as carefully as she could. The explosion from Ultron's unibeam had taken out the corner of what Beatrice guessed had once been an apartment complex, a portion of its roof blasted right off and the wall torn away, giving her a glimpse of a completely ruined, ash-filled interior. The pile of debris in front of it was three meters of shingle and stone and terracotta. Beatrice knelt down in front of it and began to dig through the rubble as the voice again called out to her for help. Someone must have been standing under the overhang when it fell and hadn't been able to run away in time.

Beatrice pulled away a bright orange roof tile and her heart jumped when she saw a hand outstretched towards her. "Don't move! I'm coming," she instructed as she pulled aside the rubble, heedless of her own injuries, until she had uncovered the torso of a boy who couldn't have been more than nineteen, a boy with wide, terrified eyes whose face was caked in ash. He clawed at her hand and moaned, "I—I can't feel my legs." His voice was young, American.

A thrill of horror shot through Beatrice as she registered the pile of heavy boards that covered his waist and everything below it. There had to be at least half a ton of weight on him. If he couldn't feel his legs, she thought, the nurse's part of her brain taking over, then he likely had a severe spinal cord injury and would be paralyzed if she tried to move him. And even if she  _could,_ where would she possibly take him for help? The hospital must be overcrowded, and they were still rising steadily. So Beatrice carefully lifted his head onto her lap, brushing away the blood and grime that caked his face and tried to soothe him. "Shhh, it'll be all right," she lied. "We'll get you out of here and to safety—"

The boy's face scrunched up in pain and he shook his head frantically, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. He moved his right hand, and this time Beatrice couldn't hide her sharp intake of breath as she saw that a long, narrow piece of sheet metal had embedded itself in his side, just above his kidney. Blood spilled out of the wound the moment he took his hand away, soaking his shirt right through. Beatrice knew immediately that it was impossible for her to remove it anywhere other than a surgical suite or she would risk his internal organs spilling out, too. If it had entered his heart just a few inches away, he would have had a quicker, easier death. Beatrice had watched many boys like this die, soldiers who dreamed of going out in a blaze of glory but who had instead left the world afraid and in pain, but repeated exposure didn't soften the blow. She couldn't give him anything to ease his pain, not even a sip of brandy. He would bleed out right here in front of her, and Beatrice would be entirely helpless. And this boy wasn't even a soldier. He had no training, no opportunity to consent to the possibility of his death. And like the rest of the Sokovians, he was completely innocent.

His eyes were wheeling around wildly, searching her face, but unable to focus on it. A low, gurgling rattle escaped his lungs. It was almost over. To distract him, Beatrice leaned forward and asked, "What's your name?"

"Charlie," he croaked hoarsely. Blood bubbled from his mouth.

"I'm Beatrice," she replied, forcing her lips into a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Charlie."

His grip tightened on her wrist, surprisingly strong. "I saw what you did just now," he whispered, his voice thick was blood. "You're one of the Avengers."

Beatrice began to shake her head. "No," she said. "I'm not—"

But Charlie didn't appear to hear her; his eyes slid out of focus and a tiny smile appeared on his lips. "I've always wanted to meet an Avenger," he mumbled. "What do they call you?"

Beatrice was about to repeat her name again when she realized what he meant, and she wasn't about to tell a dying boy the truth. Henry's face suddenly flashed into her mind: the memory of their last conversation, his strange ramblings about his wife's favorite bird. "I would do anything to hear its song one more time," he'd said.

Without quite realizing what she was doing, Beatrice said, with a rush of surety, "Nightingale."

Charlie didn't question her pause; in fact, Beatrice doubted he had heard her answer at all. The ground under him was stained a bright, pulsing red, and his grip slackened on her. His eyes stopped darting around in terror, and she recognized the telltale rattle that escaped his throat as his lungs filled with blood. She held him until he died, giving one last shuddering spasm, a single, half-choked breath—and then he was gone, his eyes staring blankly up at the sky.

Beatrice couldn't breathe. She tried to inhale a lungful of air, to remind herself that  _she_ was still alive, but she wasn't getting enough oxygen. For the first time, she looked up from Charlie's body to see that they were enveloped in a thick fog that blotted out the blue sky and even the surrounding buildings. They were in a cloud, she thought with dull alarm as she staggered to her feet again. And they were certainly high enough for her to notice the air was getting thinner. If even  _she_ could notice it, what did that mean for everyone else?

Through the smoky haze, she could see a crowd of bodies staggering forward, moving toward some unknown destination. Beatrice glanced around her and took in the deserted street; its inhabitants must have fled while she was with Charlie. Moving as if in a daze, she made her way towards them, struggling to make out her surroundings. The streets were getting wider and the acrid tang of smoke was growing stronger. They must be heading into the center of the city—closer to the battle. If the Avengers were here, they had to be close by.

Someone up ahead was shouting orders to the crowd, instructing them to take shelter in a nearby café. "Get inside!" she heard a thickly accented voice calling. "Hurry!"

The orders were in both Sokovian and English, and for that Beatrice was grateful. She broke off from the main group and followed the sound of the voice, peering through the thick gray smoke to see that it was a boy who was marshalling the crowd, a boy who, like Charlie, couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. His hair was so light that it was almost white—or perhaps that was just the dust—and he spoke in a firm, authoritative tone as he ushered them to a nearby café whose sign had been completely torn off. There were hundreds of people pressed against the windows, fearfully staring outside as they watched their city's destruction.

"Excuse me," Beatrice said to the boy, "I need to find the Avengers. Do you know where they are?"

He paused and turned to look at her, taking in her torn clothing and the gash across her forehead. "They are fighting the robots," he told her calmly. "They are trying to keep us safe. You must go to the shelter—"

Beatrice reached out and dug her fingers into his arm, preventing him from dismissing her. "I know them. I can help fight," she insisted. "Please just tell me where they are."

Perhaps it was her accent, or the wildness in her eyes, but the boy nodded after a moment and jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Come. I'll take you to them," he said, and Beatrice had barely let go of his arm when he vanished. There was no point at which she saw him disappear; he was simply standing there one moment and gone the next.

Beatrice blinked and whirled around, but he was nowhere to be seen. She stumbled blindly forward, certain there was a mistake, surely he couldn't just  _disappear_  like that—

There was a low whoosh next to her ear and then he was suddenly standing in front of her again, where he most certainly hadn't been a second ago. Beatrice stopped in her tracks as he smirked lazily at her. "Can't keep up?" he asked, almost teasingly.

She stared at him, a distinct possibility beginning to take root in her mind. Steve's words from long ago echoed in her ears:

_"He can move faster than the speed of sound. It's impossible to see him coming."_

"Pietro Maximoff?" she asked disbelievingly.

His eyebrows shot up in clear surprise, but it was all the confirmation she needed. Before she could accuse him and his sister of collaborating with Ultron, something hard and metallic slammed into the ground next to her feet. A familiar insignia peeked out from the ensuing shower of dust—a star surrounded by layers of red, white, and blue.

Beatrice snapped up Steve's shield immediately, dimly surprised at her light it was, how smooth the metal felt. She held it protectively in front of her as she charged forward, momentarily forgetting about Pietro, searching for its owner—

The cloud they had been in suddenly cleared, the fog around Beatrice lifting, and she could see clearly again. She was standing in the middle of a patch of grass in front of the café Pietro had been directing the civilians into, surrounded by smouldering debris. She was closer to the edge than she'd thought—less than a hundred meters away, the ground abruptly disappeared, as if she was standing at the end of the world. The snowcapped mountains stretched into the sky far below, like fingers reaching out for them.

Halfway between her and dizzying drop were Steve, Natasha, and Sam locked in combat with four of Ultron's sentries. They all appeared to be holding their own, but the fourth robot was advancing on Steve while his back was turned, raising its arm to fire a blast that would throw him over the edge—

"Steve!" Beatrice shouted, and tossed the shield as hard as she could in his direction. He dispatched his own robot just as his shield sliced through the torso of the second one and it collapsed in a heap of metal at his feet. He caught his shield with admirable skill and stared, clearly dumbfounded, across the parking lot that separated them, the wind ruffling his blond hair. She saw his lips part as he said  _"Beatrice?"_

She was running towards him before she knew it, ignoring the pain from her glass-filled foot, and heedlessly threw herself into his embrace, desperately clutching his shoulders, drinking in his warm, solid familiarity. His arms came up around her after a stunned moment, but there was definite tension in the way he held her, as if he couldn't quite believe she was really there. "What are you doing here?" he asked as she drew back, looking over her critically. "Beatrice, you're hurt—"

"I'll explain later," she said sheepishly, regretting her knee-jerk reaction. "It's…a long story."

Apparently not satisfied with this answer, he turned to Sam and Natasha, who had both dispatched their own sentries and were watching the reunion with amusement. "Sam, what is she doing here?" Steve asked, urgency in his voice. He didn't look pleased at all.

Sam, on the other hand, only shrugged. "I'll explain later," he said, but his lips were twitching as he turned to Beatrice. "Glad to see you made it up here okay," he remarked.

"We were about to come back for you, but we got a little sidetracked," added Natasha, glancing around at the robots surrounding them.

A muscle in Steve's jaw jumped. "Beatrice, there's no getting away from here," he told her, and she saw something like fear brewing in his eyes. "None of us are making it out of this."

She sighed. "So you're all planning to sacrifice yourselves, or as Steve calls it, a Sunday—"

But she never got the chance to finish her sentence: Steve's arm shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling Beatrice behind him in one smooth motion, as if they had practiced it a thousand times before. His shield was held defensively in front of him, and Beatrice saw a lone sentry flying toward their gathered group, about to hit them head on—

But something stopped its path, something too fast to see—a brief whirl of motion and it was suddenly nothing more than a hunk of metal on the ground. Pietro Maximoff stood in front of them, dusting off his hands, and gave them a casual shrug. "You weren't moving fast enough," he said.

Steve relaxed his guarded position, lowering his shield, and Beatrice whispered, "I thought the twins were on Ultron's side."

He glanced down at her with a rueful grin. "Not anymore. They're with us now. Well, kind of."

Beside them, Natasha stiffened, and everyone turned their attention to her. She was staring over the edge, a puzzled frown on her face. Beatrice heard it too then, the heavy whirring of motors.

A gasp escaped her mouth as a massive craft rose up in front of them and hovered in the air. Four enormous engines were churning around it, the heavy wind they generated blowing her hair around her face, and she could see two runways stretching out on either side, like an oversized aircraft carrier. It was as big as a building and seemed to go on forever.  _A_   _helicarrier,_ Beatrice thought incredulously, recognizing it from the pictures she'd seen in various S.H.I.E.L.D. files. All around them, she heard gasps and sobbing as the Sokovians saw, for the first time, a glimmer of hope.

Steve's earpiece crackled with static, and Beatrice looked eagerly over at him as Nick Fury's voice sounded from the speaker. She had never been so relieved to hear the director's calm, level voice as she was at that moment—but it took her another second before she realized that it was her he was addressing.

"Looks like you're an Avenger now, Hartley," he said.


	59. LIX

Beatrice sat motionless on the examination table, her legs dangling over the edge and her back ramrod straight as Dr. Fine shone a small flashlight into her eyes. She waited until he appeared satisfied and moved to jot down notes in her chart before she said, "Pardon me, sir, but I don't think all of this is necessary—"

"As much as I might agree with you, Miss Hartley, there are certain procedures that must be followed for all of my patients," the doctor replied, a twinkle in his eye as he pocketed the flashlight before gently taking hold of her jaw to examine the gash on her forehead. "Even ones who are nurses."

Beatrice tried not to sigh as he placed a large white bandage over her forehead. She immediately smoothed down her hair, trying to hide it as best as she could. Her injuries were, thankfully, minor—Dr. Fine had removed the glass in her foot and wrapped it with gauze, and the scrapes and bruises that dotted the rest of her body would heal within days. She had told Steve as much before she'd even seen the doctor, but he had practically pleaded with her to be examined before he and Natasha had hurried off to join the rest of the Avengers, saying something about a church and a detonator. So Beatrice had had no choice but to board the helicarrier alongside Sam, who had been taken to an adjacent examination room. Pietro had stayed behind to help usher the Sokovians onto lifeboats attached to the helicarrier.

There was a knock at the door and it slid open automatically to reveal Maria Hill on the other side, who was holding a pile of blankets. "Mind if I borrow Beatrice for a while?" she asked Dr. Fine.

He gave his approval on the condition that his patient wouldn't run headlong into the middle of the fighting again, and had barely finished speaking before Beatrice hopped down from the table and was at the door. She heard the doctor chuckle under his breath as she eagerly followed Hill into the corridor. The walls thrummed around them, the floor vibrating slightly under her feet, as if the helicarrier was a living thing, some great mechanical beast roused from the depths of the ocean. The walls were steel and bright fluorescent lights illuminated the labyrinthine hallways and countless rooms, each with a different and specific purpose. Fury had said that his team of trusted ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had retrieved it from a safe location in the Mojave Desert and spent the past weeks restoring it. Beatrice wondered where on earth such a massive craft could possibly have been stowed away.

"Where are we going?" she asked Hill, wincing as she accidentally put too much pressure on her damaged foot. Perhaps she would be wise to heed Dr. Fine's advice after all.

Hill didn't respond until they stopped at a pair of wide glass elevators with more buttons than Beatrice could count. "Here," the agent said, handing her the stack of blankets. "I thought you could help give these out to some of the refugees. There's not much we can do for them right now except make sure they're safe. We don't quite have the resources we're used to." The last sentence was spoken completely seriously, but Beatrice thought she saw the hint of a tiny smile on the usually stoic woman's lips.

True to Hill's word, the lifeboats were crowded with terrified Sokovians, most not speaking a word of English and dressed in tattered, threadbare rags. Beatrice knew that Sokovia's history was far from pretty, but she hadn't quite expected its own citizens to have suffered so much. She moved through the crowd, handing out blankets and giving those who looked worse for wear a quick examination, mentally taking notes so she could later inform Dr. Fine of those who might need medical attention. On the whole, however, the Sokovians appeared to be more mentally than physically injured, with the vast majority of them visibly shaken and displaying signs of shock. Beatrice could hardly blame them; she herself was forcing herself not to think of the Avengers, of what they were up against, of the fact that they were all currently floating eighteen thousand feet above the ground on a gigantic hovering craft that not even Howard Stark could probably have envisioned. And all of this destruction, all of this fear, could have been avoided if his son had just had the sense to leave the scepter well enough alone.

"Old habits die hard, huh?"

Beatrice instantly straightened up from where she had given her last blanket to a little girl shivering in fear and glared at Nick Fury, who was making his way down the rows of awed Sokovians toward her. His hands were loosely clasped behind his back and there was a peculiarly amused expression gleaming in his one visible eye. Beatrice bristled at his comment; she had felt as if she was being useful in a way she hadn't since waking up in the twenty-first century.

"I suppose so, Director," she said stiffly.

He gave her a knowing look in return, as if all of her frustrations were plainly written on her face. "We can't all be fighting."

"Then why did you call me an Avenger?"

Fury paused in front of her, raising an eyebrow. "Agent Hill tells me you came to Sokovia of your own accord."

Beatrice stared at him in confusion. "Not quite," she said. "I came to help Agent Romanoff. Natasha."

"And so you did," Fury agreed. "But you also risked your own life to stay here in Novi Grad when you could have easily made it to safety instead. That, Hartley, is why I called you an Avenger." He shrugged, considering. "Although you'll have to ask Stark if the requirements have changed. It's been a while since I was head of the initiative—"

"Rumlow escaped," Beatrice blurted out before she could stop herself, automatically lowering her voice. "Sam and I caught up to him in Bucharest before he managed to get hold of Bucky, but we couldn't stop him from getting away."

To her immense surprise, the side of Fury's mouth twitched as if he was holding back a smile. "I know," he said. "Wilson told me. He also said that you were able to remove Barnes's tracker."

Beatrice nodded, waiting for a rebuke that she'd only managed to do half of what he had asked her, but Fury's expression stayed in that infuriatingly calm mask. "Aren't you angry about that at all?" she finally asked, unable to withstand the piercing scrutiny of his gaze.

"It would take more than that to get me angry, Hartley," he replied coolly. "A lone ex-Hydra agent isn't the primary threat right now. If it takes an eight-foot robot to assemble the Avengers again, then so be it."

Beatrice opened her mouth to ask him about Ultron, but Fury had already turned and was striding away from her again, leaving the Sokovians to stare after him.

She watched his retreating back in astonishment, thinking back to the time Henry had called him a bastard—though not without affection—until the sounds of a distant commotion reached her ears, growing louder by the second. A few people around her gasped, and she immediately turned her attention to three figures emerging out of the smoldering debris that was Novi Grad, two of them carrying misshapen bundles in their arms. Beatrice's heart leapt into her throat as Steve, Natasha, and Clint Barton climbed onto the lifeboat, and she hurried forward to inspect what Clint held: a small, squirming boy with several bleeding cuts on his face but who appeared otherwise unharmed.

"He was caught in the rubble," muttered Clint, dragging a hand over his face as he collapsed onto the nearest bench. Beatrice barely managed to give the boy a cursory examination before she was forced to relinquish him to a sobbing blonde woman who cried out "Costel! Costel!" as she buried her face in his hair.

Clint's eyes drifted shut as if in exhaustion, and Natasha placed a hand on his shoulder, both in what appeared to be a reassuring gesture and a way of preventing him from standing up. For the first time, Beatrice's eyes shifted to Steve, who had carefully deposited his own burden onto the floor of the lifeboat with a grim expression. All of the air flew out of Beatrice's lungs, her lips parting in shock, as she regarded the lifeless body of Pietro Maximoff, his clothes riddled with bullet holes. His chest was still, but that didn't stop Beatrice from falling to her knees and checking the pulse points at his wrist and the base of his throat. But there was no need to confirm what all of them knew beyond the shadow of a doubt.

"Ultron stole a quinjet and was raining bullets on us when he jumped in the way," Clint said without opening his eyes. Beatrice saw Natasha's hand tighten on his shoulder. "There's no outrunning that."

Beatrice had known Pietro for less than an hour, and believed him to be an enemy before then, but still sadness pulled at her heart as she reached out to gently close his eyes. He was just a boy. And yet he had shown more bravery than men twice his age. Steve wordlessly held out a hand to her, and Beatrice took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He still hadn't spoken.

The four of them stood in heavy silence for the better part of a minute before Beatrice lifted her head and gazed out at what remained of Novi Grad. All of the citizens must have gotten onto the lifeboats by now. The living ones, anyway. She felt a rush of guilt and sorrow when she remembered Charlie, his body still trapped beneath the remains of what had likely been his apartment complex. Should she have brought his body onto the lifeboat so it could be delivered to his family? Or would they have preferred to be left with nothing more than memories? Beatrice's fingers drifted to her throat as she thought of the place where Bucky's dog tags had once rested.

"Where are the others?" she asked, her gaze flickering over to Steve, but it was Natasha who spoke first.

"Thor and Stark are working on a plan to blow up the city before it drops. Colonel Rhodes is on air support. The Hulk tore Ultron out of the quinjet and flew off with it. We don't know where he went."

"Blow it up?" Beatrice repeated, looking over at Steve again. "You wanted them to do that while you were still on it?"

He gave a tight nod. "We couldn't leave while there were still civilians trapped here. If Fury hadn't shown up…" He trailed off, and Beatrice suddenly understood why he had been so worried when she'd first joined them: she wouldn't have had a way to get off the city, either.

"Ultron used the stolen vibranium and the leftover Chitauri tech Hydra stole to build a machine under the church that would lift this place into the sky," Steve continued, and Beatrice remembered the massive cavern under the Hydra fortress. "We had to make sure he couldn't get to the key and activate it before we got everyone off."

Beatrice looked sharply at him. "Then who's guarding it now?"

"Wanda offered. Pietro was supposed to find her once all the civilians had been rescued—" A brief look of alarm crossed Steve's face as he realized the implications of his statement. Clint's eyes, too, snapped open in apparent disbelief.

"If she's still there—" he began, but the words had barely left his mouth when there was a horrible, unearthly grinding noise and Novi Grad suddenly dropped out of sight, plummeting to the ground below.

Beatrice's stomach dropped with it as she stared at the rock—the meteor—as it fell through the twenty thousand feet of empty air, growing smaller by the second. A collective gasp rose up from the Sokovians as they ran over to the sides of the lifeboat, gripping the railing tightly. If it hit the ground now, the shockwave would ripple through the entirety of Eastern Europe, potentially killing millions of people. She sucked in a sharp, agitated breath.

"Come on, Stark," Steve muttered from beside her. Beatrice could almost hear his unspoken words:  _You got us into this mess in the first place, now get us out of it._

And then a blinding light burst forth from the center of the city—Beatrice had to shut her eyes as she heard Clint swear—searing through the layers of rock and vibranium, the meteor burst apart into thousands of smaller pieces of rock that rained down harmlessly into the lake below them, making it look as if the water was alive and rippling. Beatrice saw something red hurtling down among the rocks and hit the surface of the water with a visible splash.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd on the lifeboat. Just like that, it was all over. Ultron was defeated, his plan destroyed. The Avengers had saved the world a second time.

Beatrice turned to Steve. His expression was unreadable. She reached over and gently squeezed his wrist. "You did it," she said quietly.

He glanced down at her, a small smile brightening the edges of his mouth, but his eyes stayed solemn. "Yeah," he said heavily, wiping a smudge from his dirt-streaked face. "I guess we did."

* * *

**Bucharest**

He hadn't slept since she left.

Then again, he rarely slept at all these days. Fighting against exhaustion was far easier than fighting against his own mind, which would inevitably be brought forth through the rivers of blood that were his dreams. He also disliked the vulnerability that sleep brought him, when he was at his most unguarded. Even without the nightmares—that were never nightmares at all, but memories—he doubted he would have been eager to give himself over to sleep. That particular luxury belonged to a man who had existed a long time ago. A lifetime ago. Someone who Bucky Barnes knew he would never be again.

But still, this was different. He was agitated, restless. He had spent the past two nights pacing the apartment and silently prowling the streets of Bucharest, his head snapping around when he caught the glow of a television or the static of a radio. He was searching for news of her, of Beatrice, Rosie,  _his_ Rosie—but no, she wasn't his anymore, was she?—and Steve. Captain America. The Avengers were in Sokovia—at least, that was what the news had said. Bucky had crouched in an alleyway for hours the previous night, listening to the noise of the television drifting from the window of the flat above him. He had a lifetime of training in patience, in waiting, but something frantic had clawed at his chest when he had finally been forced to give up, something akin to unease. He needed to know that Beatrice was alive, that she was with Steve. She had to have found Romanoff by now. At least Wilson had gone with her.

Bucky should have followed her.

He had folded and re-folded the letter she'd given him so many times that the paper was crinkled and the edges were torn. He welcomed any memories that didn't involve staring through the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. And this letter confirmed that she had been more than just a shadowy figure from his past; they had been lovers. The last time he'd seen her, she had touched his face, her fingers grazing his jaw, and something had stirred inside of him that he hadn't even known still existed. He knew he wasn't worthy of it, but some selfish part of him  _wanted_ her to look at him like that again without feeling like he was an imposter. She blamed herself for his fate, but Bucky had chosen to be on that train. He would still do it again, if it meant he had another chance at saving her. But he had failed that mission, and in searching for him she had fallen into Hydra's grasp.

He recalled helping her back to his apartment after the fight with Rumlow without considering it, the warm weight of her against his side. Only one word had flashed inside his mind then:  _Protect._ He'd let her remove the tracker in his arm without hesitation, had closed his eyes and cautiously allowed himself to be vulnerable. Those instincts belonged to him—the  _old_ him. Back to a time when the only face he saw when he closed his eyes had been hers. When he'd felt as if maybe, just maybe, he had deserved her, and didn't feel like a traitor when he imagined her hands on him again, the brush of his lips against hers, and the feel of her under him. These were things Bucky should no longer want, and yet he still did. He thought maybe he always would. There were some things even Hydra couldn't take away.

But these  _were_ his memories, weren't they? All of them. Even the ones that were too private to write in his notebook, the ones that belonged to no one but him and Beatrice. He feared they would vanish like wisps of smoke if he made them tangible, so he held onto those few good memories with everything he had. They were the only thing that made him certain he was still human.

But the rest he faithfully documented, even when his hand began to shake until he could barely hold the pen and caused him to vomit. The only thing that quieted the ghosts, even fleetingly, had been Beatrice. And Bucky had wanted to follow her with every fiber of his being, knowing that she and Steve were his only hope of absolution, but there was no absolution for men like him.

His head snapped up suddenly, detecting something, a whisper of sound carried on the warm air amidst the residual noise of a city waking up. A single word:

Sokovia.

It might have taken the Winter Soldier exactly nineteen seconds to leave the apartment and cross the road to the television displayed in the storefront opposite, but it took Bucky Barnes only seventeen. He lingered apart from the others who had stopped to listen to the news, his metal hand balling into a fist in his pocket over and over, his thumb smoothing out the creases in the letter. He had picked up enough Romanian during his stay in Bucharest to be able to understand the key points in the story: Its capital city, Novi Grad, destroyed. An unknown number of casualties. The Avengers helping to aid in the rescue effort.

Some part of him relaxed, some miniscule release of tension. Steve was alive, then. His gut twisted in something like guilt for pushing him away, for his relief when Beatrice had told him she didn't know where he was. But the weight of Steve's expectations, of his belief that Bucky was someone he knew he wasn't, was a difficult burden to bear at the best of times. Bucky would surely be crushed now if he tried. And he was determined to save Steve from that for as long as possible. He couldn't face his best friend. Not yet.

When it became clear that there was no new information forthcoming, Bucky slipped away from the gathering crowd, pulling his cap down over his eyes and staring at the sidewalk, unable to ignore the anxiety that had wormed its way into his brain. A long-buried instinct whispered at him to make sure that Beatrice was alive, that she and Wilson had found Romanoff and gotten away.

Bucky was… _worried._ He had no right to be, but he was.

Another fragmented memory flashed into his mind—standing outside a chemist's in London, staring at a closed door, waiting for her to appear and come back to him. But she never had, and Bucky had been willing to go through hell to find her again.

And he had gone through hell.

These thoughts circled in his mind like vultures as he warily glanced up and saw that his path had led him to the market square. Vendors were setting up stalls and laying out their wares, and at the other end of the square, next to the entrance to the metro station, was a pay phone.

Bucky's steps quickened as he hurried over to it, his hand going into his pocket as he retrieved the piece of paper on which Beatrice had written hers and Steve's numbers. "Call either of us if you ever need any help," she'd said— _pleaded._  Bucky had copied them into his notebook, but he preferred to carry the paper around with him, just as he always carried his letter.

After fishing around for coins, Bucky finally managed to locate a quarter and fed it to the machine, his hand shaking slightly as he dialed the first number she'd written. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears.

The call seemed to take ages to connect, and Bucky's eyes darted over the square as he listened to it ring. He didn't know what he would do if she didn't answer. He would be forced to call Steve. And he would have to steel himself to do it, but if it meant he could know for certain—

"Hello?"

Beatrice's voice sounded in his ear, tinny and faraway, but unmistakably real. A staggering wave of relief washed over Bucky, but he didn't allow himself to revel in it before hanging up on instinct, unwilling to reveal himself. He rested his head back against the receiver and stared unseeingly up at the sky.

Men like him didn't receive absolution, but this felt as close to it as he could get.


	60. LX

The S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia was proudly emblazoned on the far wall of the helicarrier's conference room, placed directly behind the director's chair so that, when sitting, it resembled a halo. Beatrice had been staring at it for the past hour, at the grand depiction of a bald eagle with its wings outstretched. It should make her feel relieved—proud, even—but the only thing she could see were its similarities to Hydra's symbol, a bright red skull with snakes twisting from its gaping mouth.

Someone gently nudged her shoulder, and Beatrice glanced over at Steve sitting beside her, still dressed in his Captain America uniform. His mouth curved downward as if troubled. "Who called you?" he whispered to her, his lips barely moving despite the number of superhumans in the room who could easily hear every word.

Beatrice felt the weight of her phone in her lap and managed a slight shrug. "I don't know," she said honestly. "They hung up as soon as I answered."

Still frowning, Steve turned his attention back to the front of the room, where the meeting had just been adjourned. Fury had briefed them all on the state of Novi Grad (destroyed), the fate of Ultron (also destroyed) and their next destination, which would involve bringing the refugees to another Sokovian city that was already preparing emergency shelters for the influx of new residents. After that, he'd told them, the helicarrier would bring the Avengers back to New York. Nobody had argued with that, but Beatrice had noticed Steve shift in his seat as if he'd wanted to speak up. She followed his gaze now, to where Tony Stark was seated next to Fury's vacant chair, the helmet removed from his suit and his head resting in his hands in an uncharacteristic show of exhaustion. James Rhodes was standing next to him, and they were speaking in low but impassioned voices.

"When she hears the news—"

"I  _know,_ Rhodey. I told her I was done with all of this. God, she's gonna kill me." Tony muttered the last sentence through clenched teeth, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. Beatrice almost felt sorry for him.

"Is she still in Australia?"

"Yeah. The conference ends tomorrow. If I leave now, I can make it there before morning. The suit's got enough power…"

Rhodes let out a disbelieving whistle. "So you're actually going to explain this to her in person? Good luck, man. You'll need it."

Beatrice didn't know Pepper Potts very well, but she privately agreed with him. Still, Tony looked so utterly defeated that she hoped the other woman would take pity on him, if only so that his cocky smirk would reappear again. The Starks weren't meant to look so world-weary—there was something unnatural about it. So unnatural, in fact, that Beatrice found she couldn't look at him for very long. She glanced over at Sam instead, who was sitting across from her, but he was deep in conversation with Maria Hill. He'd studiously avoided catching Steve's eye during the meeting, and Beatrice knew that he expected her to explain the circumstances that had led them to Sokovia in the first place. She couldn't blame him—she _had_  dragged him to Europe, after all—but even so, she wasn't looking forward to that particular conversation with Steve.

Thor was standing at the door with Fury, and Beatrice managed to catch snatches of their conversation: they were discussing the Hulk's whereabouts, who hadn't been seen since he'd thrown Ultron out of a quinjet during the battle. Thor was offering to search for the Hulk himself, as he would be able to cover the most ground, but Fury firmly told him that the tracking device on the quinjet was state-of-the-art and there was no possible way it could go undetected for long. Beatrice was certain that Thor was using the search as an excuse to leave, though—the Asgardian hadn't taken a seat with the rest of the party, but had silently paced the length of the room while Fury spoke. Even now, the lights would occasionally flicker with short bursts of electricity as Thor grew increasingly impatient.

Natasha and Clint were sitting apart from the rest of the group, not speaking, but they could hold an entire conversation in a single glance, and Beatrice was sure they were having several at once right now. Clint looked even more defeated than Tony; Beatrice guessed the loss of Pietro Maximoff had taken a heavy toll on him. Natasha had hooked her right ankle around Clint's left: a subtle gesture that could have simply been an accident, but Beatrice guessed that it was anything but. This, then, must be her niece's way of caring, of offering comfort and reassurance. She quickly dropped her gaze down to the table as Natasha's eyes flickered over to her for the briefest of moments, as if the spy had known Beatrice was watching her. If she hadn't known better, Beatrice could have sworn the hint of a sly smirk tugged at the corners of the redhead's lips.

"If Tony doesn't need it, then Beatrice and I will take the quinjet," Steve suddenly announced, causing everyone in the room to turn to him. He met Beatrice's questioning look and gave a small, sheepish grin. "If she doesn't mind coming along with me, of course."

Tony shrugged at them, seemingly unbothered by the request. "As long as you bring it back with a full tank, Rogers."

Before Beatrice could ask Steve what was going on, there was a loud, frantic knock at the doors, thankfully diverting everyone's attention away from them. Fury, the closest to the door, immediately opened it, only be met with a young, messy-haired S.H.I.E.L.D. tech whose eyes were as wide as saucers. "P—permission to speak freely, sir?" he asked, stuttering a bit as the sight of the Avengers all gathered in one room.

Fury nodded shortly. "Permission granted, Agent Klein."

"There's someone on board who wants to meet you, Director. Well, he just arrived on board now. He says he knows Mr. Stark." The agent nodded at Tony, who sighed and leaned back in his chair as his dark eyes rolled up to the ceiling.

"Of course he does," Fury muttered before saying in a louder voice, "Bring him in."

Agent Klein obediently stepped back to let two more people inside. The first new arrival was a girl with dark brown hair who couldn't have been much younger than Beatrice. Her face was streaked with dirt and her eyes were red-rimmed as if she had been crying, but Beatrice noticed that she relaxed as soon as her gaze landed on Clint.

 _Wanda Maximoff,_ she thought grimly, and then, as if hearing her thoughts, the girl's eyes darted up to Beatrice's, but unlike earlier with Natasha, Beatrice didn't look away. They stared at each other for a long moment, a strange connection passing between them, before Wanda broke the gaze first to examine the floor instead.

But before Beatrice had time to reflect on the unusual moment, a second figure appeared behind the other girl, and all thoughts of the second Maximoff twin flew out of Beatrice's mind as her jaw dropped open in shock.

It—he?— _looked_ human at first glance, though Beatrice had never seen any human like it before, and she had certainly seen her fair share of oddities in the past month. Its skin was a peculiar shade between red and purple, and it wore a long, flowing yellow cape that resembled Thor's. A golden gem sat in the middle of its forehead, catching the light as it turned its head to face the gathered Avengers. The sight was so completely bizarre that Beatrice abandoned all of her manners to simply stare at it, dimly wondering why she and Sam were the only ones who were employing any sort of reaction. Not even Steve looked surprised.

And then, as if the situation couldn't get any more bizarre, it opened its mouth and said in J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice, "Hello, Director Fury. I have heard a great deal about you. I am Vision."

Evidently amused by her reaction, Steve leaned forward, a deliberately teasing tone in his voice, and whispered, "I'll explain later."

* * *

Beatrice and Steve stood on the ramp of the quinjet, which was waiting for them on the helicarrier's longest runway. Now that they weren't in imminent mortal danger, she could properly appreciate the view from this height, the fluffy white clouds that floated so close to the helicarrier that Beatrice felt as if she could reach out and touch them.

She peered inside the quinjet and, catching a glimpse of the empty cockpit, turned curiously to Steve. "Who's the pilot?" she asked.

The corners of his mouth quirked up. "Me."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know you could fly!"

"Let's just say it's a job requirement," Steve said dryly. He nodded at the two other figures leaning against the entrance to the quinjet; Sam and Natasha were the only ones who had come to see them off. "You should see Nat at the controls."

Sam scoffed. "Call me when you guys actually  _have_ wings."

Beatrice turned to Natasha with an apologetic expression. "You'll let Henry know I'm all right?" she asked hopefully.

Her niece smirked lightly and regarded her with cool amusement. "Only if he asks."

She was certain that Natasha was being tongue-in-cheek, but Beatrice didn't know the other woman well enough to return the jest. At least, she thought, this was better than the cool distance with which she had been treated upon their first several meetings. Giving her a politely neutral grin in response, she turned around and was about to follow Steve up the ramp when Natasha said, "Beatrice, wait."

Beatrice paused, almost too eager in the rapidity with which she whirled back around. Natasha shifted her posture almost uncomfortably, clearly wishing she was anywhere else, but the next words out of her mouth were surprisingly genuine. "Thanks for rescuing me back there. I owe you one." And she gave Beatrice a grudging, honest smile.

It was difficult to conceal the relief and excitement bubbling in Beatrice's stomach, but she tried her best to keep her voice calm and steady. "Don't mention it," Beatrice said, returning the redhead's smile. "Like I said, I couldn't leave my family."

Natasha shook her head slowly, her bouncing curls partially obscuring her face from view. "You really are Henry's sister, aren't you?" she said, but she was still grinning.

Beatrice took a moment to hug Sam before making her way up the ramp to join Steve in the quinjet. The blond man was already sitting in the pilot's seat, surveying the myriad of blinking controls before him. "Ready?" he asked as he reached over to flick a switch. The engine instantly rumbled to life under them.

"I don't suppose I have a choice now," Beatrice said with a nervous laugh. There were two rows of seats facing each other in the cargo bay, and she quickly sat down in the nearest one, reaching for the safety straps to pull over her shoulders. A moment later she felt the quinjet lift off the ground, and soon they were gliding through the air as easily as if it was a toy, away from the helicarrier and the rest of the Avengers. She felt her shoulders automatically relax in relief, but she didn't allow herself to become too complacent. They might be leaving one set of problems behind, but Beatrice was certain they were heading straight into another one.

"We're going to see Peggy, aren't we?" she asked after a long moment, watching the helicarrier fade away into the clouds.

"Yeah," Steve said, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "I hope that's okay. I haven't visited her in a while, and I think she would be happy to see you again."

Beatrice simply nodded. She couldn't say that she was particularly looking forward to seeing Peggy, if the old woman was in as fragile as a condition as Steve had implied she was. It had been difficult enough visiting Rebecca. But this was no time to be selfish, she quickly chastised herself. Peggy Carter had been a friend to her during the brief period the two had been acquainted. The least Beatrice could do was visit her.

"I guess you have a lot of questions, huh?" Steve asked, standing up and making his way over to her; he had to duck at the entrance to the cockpit. "Don't worry, it's on autopilot," he added with a wry grin at Beatrice's alarmed look. "I just need to be at the controls during takeoff and landing."

"Oh," she said, relieved, though the sight of an empty cockpit was nevertheless hardly reassuring. "You probably have a lot more questions than I do. Steve, I'm sorry—"

"Hey, no need to apologize," he interrupted surprisingly gently, taking the seat across from her. "Sam sure isn't going to. Look,  _I'm_ sorry for how I acted back in Sokovia. Before Fury showed up, I thought the city was gonna blow with all of us on it. That wasn't your fight to lose."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "Did you really plan to die there?"

Steve dropped his gaze to the floor and was silent for so long that Beatrice was certain he wasn't going to speak at all. "Yes," he finally said quietly, as if he was confessing a great secret.

And Beatrice's heart broke for him. Here, alone, he didn't have to be strong, didn't have to be a leader. She looked at him, at the sweaty hair sticking to his temples, a five o'clock shadow dusting across his chin, an unbearable heaviness in his eyes. No one so young should look so unbearably old, she thought.

"Steve," she said, just as gently. "You're not Atlas. You can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders forever. No one can." She paused, wondering if she should continue to speak, but the words tumbled out before she could stop them. "You're…different when you wear that uniform. It changes you somehow. Not in a bad way," she hurriedly added. "I mean, it's just hard to imagine you calling me Bea again. That's all."

Steve raised his head to meet her eyes again, his blue gaze steady and clear. "It is me, I promise," he told her. "People just don't respond to Steve Rogers the way they do to Captain America. And I didn't know you liked me calling you that so much. I figured Bucky already had a monopoly on nicknames for you."

"Come on, Steve," Beatrice half-teased, trying to disguise the relief that flooded through her at his reassurance. "You have nicknames for everyone. Buck, Peg, Nat…" She did her best imitation of his serious tone, earning herself the brief flash of a grin. "It's about time you started calling me Bea."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and mock-saluted her before worry crept back into his eyes. "I—I shouldn't have been so distant lately. It's just…easier to be that way, especially lately. To compartmentalize." He heaved a weary sigh and shrugged.

"What's been going on?" Beatrice prodded, hoping he would open up to her.

Luckily, Steve appeared to have been waiting for her to ask, and immediately launched into an explanation. "After Johannesburg, Clint took us to a safe house in Iowa. We were all pretty shaken. Wanda, she…the hallucinations are more real than dreams. I don't know what the others saw, but I can't imagine they were any more pleasant than mine. God, I know what Peggy looks like now, I should have known it was a trick, but I—I just wasn't thinking that way." Steve gave a sudden, odd twitch, as if he was suppressing a shudder.

"I understand," Beatrice said quietly. Wanda's powers had originated from the scepter, or whatever was inside it, and she herself had been treated to a vision of waking up next to Bucky on their farm in Indiana—a dream she knew she wouldn't soon forget, or Elena and George, the names of the children she would never have.

"After Fury showed up, Bruce and Tony eventually figured out that Ultron was planning to build a new body for himself using the stolen vibranium from Wakanda and Dr. Cho's regeneration technology. If he used the gem in the scepter as his power source, there would be nothing any of us could do to stop him. Nat, Barton and I went to Seoul and intercepted the cradle—Dr. Cho's invention—before he was able to upload his consciousness into it. His sentries took Nat, but Barton and I had to bring the cradle back to the tower before we started looking for her. And Tony had the… _brilliant_  idea to upload J.A.R.V.I.S.'s operational matrix into the cradle. We tried to stop him, but Thor intervened, saying that it was our only hope to destroy Ultron. And so Vision was created." Steve spread his hands out helplessly, apparently at a loss for words.

It took Beatrice several minutes to process what he had told her. "I don't think I understood a word of that," she said weakly. "But where do the twins fit in all of this?"

"They went to Seoul with Ultron, but Wanda said she was able to look in his mind and see his plan to destroy the world. So she and Pietro turned on him. They're just kids, Bea," Steve said, at her skeptical glance. "They thought they were doing the right thing."

"I know," Beatrice said with a heavy sigh. "I guess it's just difficult for me to imagine anyone willingly being experimented on by Hydra." She paused, thinking of the terrifying surge of energy that had turned Ultron's sentries into piles of scrap metal. She'd had no control over the outburst, as if the Tesseract had merely been using her body as a conduit for its power. "Thor told me that the Tesseract and the scepter were similar. But I was only able to survive because I already had the serum in me. Zola once said that all the other subjects he had tested it on had died. Whatever it is...I don't think its power is meant for humans to have. Ultron said that the twins were the only ones to survive Strucker's experiments. So what happened?"

"I'm not sure," Steve admitted. "They're definitely similar, but not the same. Maybe it requires mental fortitude just as much as physical strength."

"There's something more to all of this, I know it," Beatrice muttered, half to herself. "The Tesseract, the scepter…"

"Thor left to get answers," Steve offered. "Maybe he found them. He knows more about this than the rest of us. You could ask him before he goes back to Asgard."

She nodded slowly, considering, but her mind was only partly on his words. She couldn't put off telling him what had happened any longer. Would he be angry at her for going to see Bucky? Or would he understand? It had been an order from Fury, after all.

But then Bucky himself appeared in her thoughts, and so did the desperation on his face, in his voice, as he'd pleaded with her not to tell Steve where he was. Would she betray him by doing this, even if she didn't tell Steve exactly  _where_  Bucky was? She and Steve had always been open and honest with each other—it was one of the reasons why their friendship had always been so tight-knit, as effortless as breathing. Could Beatrice live with herself, knowing that she was keeping this secret from Steve, or would she be able to live with herself knowing she had told Steve anyway despite Bucky begging her not to?

What would  _Steve_  do, if he was in her place?

"Bea?"

Steve's voice broke her out of her racing thoughts; he was leaning forward, looking concerned. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he frowned at her. Beatrice couldn't meet his gaze; guilt burned in her chest as she glanced away from him, locking her fingers together and gripping onto them tightly. No, she decided. She couldn't tell Steve about Bucky—not yet—but she could tell him part of the truth. "Sorry," she said quickly, still unable to look at him. "I was just thinking—you were right. I shouldn't have come here."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "Well, it turned out okay in the end, didn't it?"

"No, that's not what I mean." Beatrice barely managed to refrain from gnashing her teeth together in frustration. "Fury came to Sam's house before he went to Iowa. He told us that he'd tracked Rumlow to Romania and he wanted us to find him."

Steve froze, his knuckles whitening from where they were gripping his knees. "Why didn't he tell us first?"

"You were busy with Ultron. He seems to be familiar with the concept of compartmentalization too." This time Beatrice actually did roll her eyes. "Look, don't blame Sam for this. I  _wanted_  to go, Steve. I wanted to find Crossbones, and I wanted to help instead of just sitting around waiting for something to happen. You would be familiar with that," she challenged, suddenly on the defensive.

Steve frowned, and she immediately regretted her outburst, but he couldn't very well complain when they both knew she was speaking the truth. "So what happened?" he said after a moment.

"We found Rumlow in Bucharest," admitted Beatrice. "We tried to lure him away from the crowds, but he got away from Sam. At least I managed to get my letters back."

Steve swore under his breath, an unusual occurrence, and leaned his head back against the seat, his eyes drifting closed as if he was in pain. "And you have no idea where he is now?"

"No. But he knows we're looking for him." Beatrice paused, winding a strand of hair around her finger as she tried to figure out the best way to explain. "Then I got a text from Natasha with her coordinates—Sam told me that you called him after what happened in Seoul and he already knew she was in danger. So we drove up to Sokovia—"

"How did she know you were in Romania?"

"Lucky guess." Beatrice shrugged as convincingly as she could, unable to stop a wince. "But we were the closest to her. We found her just before Ultron's sentries lifted up Novi Grad, but we got caught when the Hydra base collapsed and I was separated from them."

"So you came to look for us." Steve sighed and opened his eyes again, giving his head a single, rueful shake. "Natasha was right, then."

"About what?"

"She said I couldn't keep you from this forever."

Beatrice raised a challenging eyebrow at him. "Steve, why would you  _want_ to keep me from this? It's my decision."

He carefully avoided her gaze, clearly reluctant to answer. She waited patiently for him to speak, and wasn't disappointed when he finally muttered, "I can't lose you too. Not like I lost Bucky."

All the annoyance left her at his unwilling confession. Beatrice reached out and grasped his wrist, squeezing lightly. "Look at me," she said gently. "You won't lose me, Steve. You can't keep me away from the world forever. I think we've already established by now that I'm a danger magnet."

He laughed hollowly. "I think we have."

She held onto him for another heartbeat before drawing back, suddenly very aware of his eyes on her. "There was…something else, too," Beatrice said slowly, as a way to clear her muddled thoughts. "I found a boy crushed by debris in one of the streets. His name was Charlie. I couldn't save him. He thought I was one of the Avengers and asked what my name was, so I told him it was Nightingale."

"Nightingale," Steve repeated, his brow furrowing. It sounded more impressive in his voice. "It suits you. Why'd you pick it?"

Beatrice shrugged, at a sudden loss for words. "When I last saw Henry, he told me his wife's favorite bird was a nightingale. I guess it was already on my mind. And...my mother used to call me  _ptichka._ It means little bird in Russian."

Steve gave her a half-smile. "And Florence Nightingale. The nurse."

Beatrice grudgingly grinned back, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her chest. "Yeah. Fitting."

"So you have a name now and everything, huh." Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "At least you didn't run into Ultron."

The spark of relief she had felt just a second ago was suddenly and cruelly snuffed out, leaving her heart to sink down into her stomach. She blinked rapidly, cursing the traitorous tears that sprung into her eyes. "Actually, I did. Steve," she whispered, feeling her chest constrict into a painful knot.

Immediately sensing her distress, he leaned forward and gave her his full attention. "Yeah?" he asked softly.

"Ultron said…he said that the Winter Soldier killed Ivan." Beatrice bit down hard on her bottom lip and swiped away the wetness in her eyes, hating how her voice wobbled. "He had access to everything on the Internet and knew what to use against me. Natasha confirmed he was telling the truth."

All the color drained out of Steve's face as he stared at Beatrice, his lips parting in shock. His eyes were wide. "God, I, Beatrice— _how_ —?"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," Beatrice interrupted his mangled sentence. She reached up to swat at the tears with her sleeve, but more quickly spilled out to replace them. She sniffled and took a shuddering breath as she tried to speak again. "Ivan died in 1967. At the airport in Moscow. A single shot through a glass wall from a hundred yards away. Henry told Natasha that he chased after the sniper but couldn't catch up to them. It was only when he started working for S.H.I.E.L.D. that he learned Ivan had discovered Hydra's infiltration. He was planning to travel to Washington and tell Howard, but he was killed before he even left Russia. Those files Natasha gave me when I first woke up...they just said it was the KGB who did it. I never thought—"

The ever-growing lump in her throat prevented her from speaking any further, and Steve, who looked as if he had been punched in the gut, started to say something, but Beatrice shook her head furiously, desperate to get the words out before he could. "I know what you're going to say, Steve. It wasn't Bucky. It was Hydra. I  _know._ It was fifty years ago. Ivan would have forgiven him. But—" This time she couldn't stop herself from letting out a tiny whimper and curled into herself as she began to tremble, her breathing fast and shallow.  _But I still need to grieve._

And then she felt Steve's arms around her as he pulled her close to him, resting his chin atop her head. Perhaps he knew that anything he said now would just be an empty reassurance, and that Beatrice simply needed his presence. She instinctively burrowed into him, burying her face in his shoulder while her body silently wracked with sobs. Just as Steve didn't have to be Captain America up here, removed from the rest of the world, so too could Beatrice finally let out the grief that had been consuming her from the inside out, to the only other person alive who could understand what she was feeling—could understand  _her._

Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the flight, but then again, they didn't have to.


	61. LXI

Barely an hour later, the quinjet lightly touched down on a wide, sloping lawn that served as the backdrop to an elegant manor house. It looked like the setting to every Jane Austen novel Beatrice had ever read, with perfectly landscaped gardens and tall hedgerows bordering the winding gravel path that led to the front doors. The property practically oozed old money and connections in high places that went back decades, if not centuries. Beatrice knew without a doubt that this was Peggy's childhood home, an extraordinarily privileged lifestyle that she had presumably given up to take part in the war. Beatrice felt herself growing smaller, more insignificant, at this straightforward display of wealth, as if she, a girl who had grown up in a crowded tenement in Brooklyn, wasn't worthy to be here. It was the same feeling she'd had upon first meeting Howard Stark and later being shown her rooms at Avengers Tower—like she was an imposter.

"Where exactly are we?" she asked Steve, briefly tearing her eyes away from the manor to glance questioningly at him.

"About sixty miles outside of London," he replied, emerging from the cockpit and coming over to stand beside her. He had changed out of his uniform and into a less conspicuous pair of jeans and a light gray jacket. Beatrice, having no other change of clothes, had searched the quinjet until she'd found an old S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's uniform, ostensibly abandoned after the organization's dissolution. It was several sizes too large for her and hung loosely off her frame, but anything was a preferable alternative to her dirty, stained current attire. Still, it felt strange to wear the insignia she had been staring at just hours before pinned on her shoulder.

"Is Peggy expecting us?" she inquired as she rolled up the sleeves of the uniform. She was trying her best to appear natural, as if she hadn't been crying uncontrollably just an hour previously. She knew her eyes were still red-rimmed and her voice shaky, but Steve didn't comment on it, and Beatrice was eternally grateful.

Before he'd gotten up to take the controls again, he'd squeezed her hands and given her a small smile. "I'm sorry, Bea," he'd murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, and Beatrice had nodded wordlessly, unable to watch him stand up. He knew just as well as she did that nothing he could do or say would change the truth of what had happened to Ivan. Nor did he ask her if she blamed Bucky: Beatrice would shoulder the guilt by herself before she felt even the tiniest spark of resentment toward Bucky. She and Steve had both read the files, seen the pictures, knew what Hydra had done to him. And Beatrice knew that Steve would feel the same way if their situations were reversed. But it was still an enormous blow, and somehow Steve understood that, too.

He reached over her shoulder to punch in the code that lowered the ramp before answering. "I guess we'll find out," Steve said, with a sideways grin.

They were met at the front doors by a stern-faced woman who introduced herself as Peggy's live-in nurse; she seemed unimpressed by their sudden appearance and even less affected by Steve's earnest manner. Beatrice admired her apparent immunity to his charm. "It's not one of her good days," she warned as she grudgingly stepped aside to lead them into the foyer, all oak-panelled walls and stuffy furniture.

"Not one of her good days?" Beatrice mouthed to Steve.

He shook his head once, quickly, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Alzheimer's," he said grimly, his jaw tight.

The name was only vaguely familiar to Beatrice. She wanted to ask the nurse what it was, bursting with curiosity about how medical knowledge had advanced over the years, but one look at the woman's sour face had her keeping her mouth shut. "Alzheimer's," she repeated, thinking back to the textbooks she'd studied. "Senility?"

"Yeah."

It was impossible to imagine the Peggy Carter Beatrice had known, the keen intelligence and unflinching stare, reduced to such a state. But the aging had to have been slow, the angular features of her face gradually softening, so that someone who had known her for decades would always see the same woman gazing back. But it was different for Beatrice and Steve, the two of them suspended in time, unchanging, while the world continued to spin around them. It had been a shock for Beatrice to see Henry as an old man, her baby brother no longer the same person she had once known. Even Rebecca had been irrevocably changed. What must it have been like for Steve to see the woman he loved again? At least Bucky had still been recognizable, still undoubtedly  _Bucky._  Had there been anything familiar in Peggy for Steve to grasp onto and hold like a lifeline?

As the nurse led them through the twisting, labyrinthine corridors of the manor, up a magnificent spiral staircase and through what had to have once been servants' quarters, Beatrice noticed that Steve's hands were trembling slightly at his sides, his back ramrod straight and his gaze unwavering; all signs of stress she recognized in him. He was nervous about seeing Peggy, Beatrice realized. When he finally stuffed his hands in his pockets, she silently reached out to touch his elbow, and smiled reassuringly when he looked down at her. He gave her an automatic but genuine smile in response, and she felt him relax slightly. He extended his arm just enough so that she could loop her own arm through his, and she felt his weight press against her side as if he was physically leaning on her for comfort. It reminded Beatrice of the conversation they had had in the quinjet, and her selfish concern that he was no longer the Steve Rogers whom Beatrice had known. This felt like a silent reassurance that he still existed.

And she had repaid that by lying to him about Bucky.

Beatrice stiffened, another wave of guilt surging through her, and she sensed Steve glance down at her in confusion, but she kept her gaze firmly ahead, knowing she would break down if she were to meet his eyes now.  _I'll tell him soon,_ she thought over and over, repeating the words inside her head like a mantra.  _I promise._ But she couldn't even convince herself that, and the knot of guilt in the pit of her stomach twisted even tighter.

She was grateful for the distraction that arrived shortly afterward in the form of a tall blonde woman coming out of a room in front of them—but her traitorous relief was almost immediately dissipated by Steve's quiet but audible surprised intake of breath beside her. She let her arm fall from his as he stepped forward, shock crossing his face.

"Sharon?" Steve asked disbelievingly. Beatrice recognized the name at once—she was the woman Clint had mentioned, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent pretending to be a nurse. What was she doing here?

For her part, if Sharon was just as surprised to see Steve, she didn't show it. Her expression was smooth as she nodded to him. "Captain Rogers," she said cordially, brown eyes flickering behind him to land on Beatrice, who didn't look away.

Steve's voice held what Beatrice recognized as a slightly accusatory tone, though she didn't know if Sharon could hear it too. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting," she said simply, with a shrug of one shoulder. And then something like guilt flashed across her pretty features. "Peggy is my great-aunt," she admitted after a moment. "Her brother Michael was my grandfather."

Beatrice threw a glance at Steve to see how he was taking the news; he was quiet for a heartbeat before nodding slowly and giving her a polite smile. "So she's the aunt you were always talking about," he said.

Sharon's answering smile was so quick that Beatrice barely saw it. "Listen, what happened in D.C.—that was all Fury's idea. I was just doing my job."

"Spying on me, you mean," Steve said with a rueful grin. He paused. "Did Peggy know?"

Sharon shook her head. "I didn't want to burden her with another secret."

Steve's shoulders relaxed, and so did Beatrice. "So what are you doing now?" he asked, sounding slightly less suspicious.

"The CIA has me stationed in Berlin at the Joint Counter Terrorism Centre," Sharon replied. "The office is overstaffed because of what happened in Sokovia, so I decided to just come here for a visit."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Requirement of the job," Steve said sheepishly, before turning to Beatrice as if he had just remembered she was there. "This is Beatrice Hartley. She's—"

"I've heard about her. Word travels fast around here. It's nice to meet you, Beatrice." Sharon extended a hand to her, and Beatrice took it in some apprehension. The other woman's grip was firm and confident, but her smile appeared genuinely friendly.

"How is she?" Steve asked in a low voice, nodding toward the door. His hands were in his pockets again.

"Lucid, but who knows how long she'll stay that way," the blonde woman answered. "I'm sure she'd be glad to see you." She gave Beatrice another polite smile before turning to speak to the nurse, who had stayed silent throughout the conversation.

Steve's shoulders tightened, and Beatrice heard him exhale softly before he moved forward into the room, as tense as if he was about to face a firing squad. Helpless, Beatrice warily followed him inside.

Peggy's bedroom was open and airy, with the curtains thrown back to reveal a pleasant green garden outside. Picture frames and pill bottles adorned her nightstand. A frail-looking old woman was sitting up in bed, clouded eyes staring at them.

"Steve!" Peggy immediately exclaimed, her face lighting up. There was no mistaking her delight, or the sharp brown eyes that Beatrice remembered boring into her whenever she'd been quizzed about the goings-on at the field hospital. "It's been too long since you've visited."

Steve's answering smile lit up the room, holding more than a touch of relief. He moved to pull up a chair from the writing-desk and flip it around so that it faced the bed. "Hi, Peg," he said sheepishly. "I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to visit recently. Busy saving the world. You know how it is." There was a teasing glint in his eyes that gave him a boyish look. A heavy weight seemed to lift from his shoulders as he gestured to Beatrice, who still hovered awkwardly in the doorway. "I brought someone else with me this time."

"Beatrice Hartley," Peggy interrupted before he could introduce her first. She reached over for a pair of tortoiseshell glasses on her bedside table. "Back from the dead, I see." Her tone was tinged with dry amusement.

"A lot of us are," Steve muttered under his breath.

But Peggy either didn't hear the comment or chose to ignore him. "Come closer," she urged, and Beatrice mutely obeyed, walking over to stand next to Steve's chair. Peggy reached out and grasped her hand with surprising strength, her wedding ring pressing into Beatrice's bare fingers. Her white hair was still neatly curled, spread upon the pillow, and the deep grooves etched into her face looked as if they had always been a part of her. "Sergeant Barnes's fiancée," she mused, with a slight smile. "The army nurse. I remember you, dear. There's no need to look so startled."

Beatrice didn't dare to break her gaze, not even to look over at Steve. "You lent me a dress once," Beatrice told her. "In London."

Peggy nodded slowly, her expression clouding over with remembrance. "I am sorry," she said, the creases around her eyes tightening. "About you and Sergeant Barnes both. If the SSR had any inkling as to your whereabouts, we would have gone looking for you straightaway."

Beatrice forced herself to nod, swallowing back the sudden lump in her throat. "It wasn't your fault, Agent Carter," she said quietly. "It would have been dangerous to search for us. More lives would have been lost if you had."

But it was still difficult to ignore the implications of her words. Beatrice and Bucky had both been presumed dead. Even if the SSR  _had_ thought there was still a chance they were alive, sending out a search party in the Alps during a blizzard, with the threat of avalanches and the mountains crawling with Hydra agents, the risk of losing even more valuable SSR personnel would have been too great. It was a tactical, almost cold decision, but they had still been at war then. Loss was inevitable.

"But we still should have done it," Steve put in, his voice tight. He was staring down at his knees, his knuckles curled over them. "I shouldn't have just gone along with Phillips' orders, for both of you. If I'd—"

" _Steve,"_ Beatrice told him sternly. "Let's stop having this conversation. You did the right thing."

Peggy settled back into her pillows, giving Beatrice a weary smile. "Survivor's guilt is a powerful thing," she said. "God only knows how many friends I've lost. And Steve needs a war to fight. I don't know what the man would do without one." She turned to give him an affectionate glance, but Steve had suddenly gone rigid, the tendons in the back of his hands standing out.

Beatrice frowned, noticing his discomfort—something about Peggy's words had deeply affected him—and rather than call attention to it, she quickly cast around for another topic of conversation. Her eyes landed on the picture frames scattered across the nightstand—most of them of people she had never seen before: Peggy and an unfamiliar man on what was clearly their wedding day, Peggy with two small children, a middle-aged Peggy giving the camera a rare but genuine smile…"Those are beautiful photographs," Beatrice said, moving past Steve's chair to examine them more closely. "You must be very proud."

"Oh, Daniel took most of them. My late husband," Peggy clarified for Beatrice's sake. "He was a wonderful photographer…when he managed to persuade me to get in front of the camera, of course." She chuckled, and Beatrice heard a low wheeze under the sound. Slightly alarmed, she forced herself to push her nurse's instincts away and looked at the next row of pictures, where she recognized a sharp-eyed blonde woman.

Following her gaze, Peggy regarded her grandniece with a warm look. "You met Sharon outside, I presume," she said dryly. "She left just before you got here."

"Yes." Steve answered this time, seemingly pulling himself out of whatever dark thoughts he had been harboring. "She seems to be a very…interesting woman."

Beatrice looked sharply at him, but couldn't ascertain his tone; Peggy looked pleased. "She's the only one in the family to follow in my footsteps," she told them. "Her mother was furious, but Sharon was determined to make a name for herself at S.H.I.E.L.D…"

She regaled them with tales of Sharon and the Carters for the rest of the visit; Beatrice had already read about them in the files she had been given, but she and Steve were content to let the old woman talk, still the quick-witted agent she had been during the war, but with a touch of softness that time had worn away at her sharp edges, smoothing her into a slightly different shape. Steve had never had that luxury, but he bore Peggy's reminiscing surprisingly well, Beatrice thought. There was no trace of resentment or bitterness in him when she mentioned her husband, the life she had gotten to live. Peggy had deserved every minute of it, Steve had told her once, and Beatrice was inclined to agree. She had certainly earned it.

Less than an hour into the visit, Peggy dissolved into a short coughing fit, having to pause and take a sip of water from the strain of talking. Nevertheless, the sour-faced nurse had almost immediately rushed inside and shooed Steve and Beatrice out, telling them that she had already had too much excitement from all the visitors that day and needed to rest. Steve acquiesced without a fight, leaning over to kiss Peggy gently on the forehead and promising her to a dance, but when Beatrice went to say her goodbyes, the old woman pulled her close and whispered, "Take care of him," in what she imagined was a slightly wistful tone.

Beatrice simply nodded, knowing there was no need to say anything else. Peggy knew how close she and Steve had been in Brooklyn. But even so, why would she mention it in the first place? There had been something else there, but Beatrice couldn't quite put her finger on it.

She and Steve didn't speak again until they had left the manor and were walking down the front path to where the quinjet was waiting, their feet crunching loudly on the gravel. Beatrice imagined Peggy sitting up in bed, staring out the window at them.

"That seemed like one of her good days to me," she remarked lightly, casting a wary glance at Steve walking beside her.

His expression darkened. "I guess," he muttered. "Better than she was the last time I saw her." He suddenly met her eyes, and Beatrice was too surprised to look away. "What did she say to you before we left?" he asked.

For the second time that day, a lie easily fell from Beatrice's lips without her brain's conscious input: "Nothing," she said.

She expected Steve to call her bluff right away—for someone who was so terrible at lying himself, he was remarkably adept at spotting dishonesty in others—but he simply fell silent again, accepting her explanation. Beatrice copied him, stuffing her hands in her pockets and keeping her head down, her eyes fixed on the ground. Disquiet wormed its way into her chest, burrowing somewhere just behind her lungs so that she felt it every time she took a breath.

As soon as they boarded the quinjet, Steve went right into the cockpit and collapsed onto the pilot's chair, letting his head drop onto his arms where he stayed, unmoving. Defeat was evident in his hunched posture, the look foreign on him. It was a deeply unsettling sight.

Beatrice leaned over the back of his chair and silently reached down to rub his shoulders in the only gesture of comfort she could offer, feeling the tension in them. After a moment Steve inhaled deeply and raised his head to watch her dully. His eyes were red.

"You okay?" she asked him quietly.

He nodded, once, and leaned his head back into her touch, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes closed. "Yeah. It's just—it's tough to see her like this."

"I know," Beatrice said simply. It was all she  _could_ say. She knew exactly how it felt to love someone who was so changed from what they had once been. Suddenly, she very much wanted to go back to New York, as different as it was. Racing across Europe for the past week had given her a renewed appreciation for the city, and more than a tinge of homesickness.

After another minute of silence, Beatrice's hands stilled on his shoulders and she tilted her head in consideration. "But she did tell me something important."

Steve cracked open one eye and glanced warily up at her. "What?"

Beatrice felt herself grin. "She told me to take care of you. I interpreted that as me having permission to give you orders now."

He gave a muffled snort. "At your service, ma'am."

Thankfully, a touch of playful sarcasm had entered his voice, and his expression had brightened slightly. Beatrice tried to hide the relief in her voice as she nodded to the quinjet's controls. "Then let's go home, Captain."

* * *

**Manhattan**

Rather suddenly, Beatrice's eyes snapped open.

Night shrouded her bedroom in darkness and shadows, but wide, luminous eyes blinked down at her from their perch on her nightstand. Beatrice blinked back, only mildly surprised. Ever since returning to Avengers Tower, the cat had somehow—magically—broken into her rooms. Her locked rooms.

Beatrice took the surprisingly docile creature into her arms, its jet-black fur crinkling silkily under her hands. Marching straight out of her suite, her gaze swept around the darkened hall outside, only to find it empty. Just as she passed a half-ajar door near the elevators, the cat suddenly mewled and wrestled itself out of her arms, landing with a quiet thud and racing into the room beyond.

Hesitation slid through Beatrice before her curiosity won out. The room was wide and spacious, identical to hers, with floor-to-ceiling windows that were cracked open, allowing the sound of distant nightlife to drift in. On the floor sat a girl with dark brown hair, a sketchbook in her lap and the cat sitting next to her, its tail swinging happily. The sight of the sketchbook had nostalgia tugging on Beatrice's insides, hazy memories of parks and Henry and a much smaller Steve flitting through her mind, but she forced herself to focus on the present.

"You're loud," Wanda Maximoff said without looking up.

Beatrice paused. "Excuse me?"

"Your thoughts," the other girl answered matter-of-factly. "I can't sleep."

"My…" Beatrice trailed off, bewildered. But she supposed she shouldn't be: Wanda was a witch. Like Beatrice herself, there was power beyond comprehension confined to her veins. But their powers were different: Beatrice's cosmic, Wanda's mythic. She could feel the presence of power like pinpricks of electricity against her skin. There was something incredibly off-putting about the younger girl, and she remembered Steve's words: " _Wanda…I can't exactly explain what she does. She gives you visions, I guess. Hallucinations."_

But she wasn't wrong. Beatrice had been agonizing since they had returned to New York—about her deliberate omission about meeting Bucky in Bucharest to Steve, her guilt over the truth about Ivan's death. It would be enough to drive anyone mad. Wanda had taken up residence on Steve's floor of the tower. Beatrice had expected her to choose Clint's—then again, she hadn't seen the archer in days.

She'd been surprised when Steve had told her that Wanda was staying at the tower indefinitely, after what she and Pietro had done to the Avengers. But Pietro was dead—had sacrificed himself for them—and the twins had both turned on Ultron. Perhaps Tony had had a change of heart, Beatrice reflected. Or maybe he simply didn't know yet; he still hadn't returned from Australia, with or without Pepper. Nor had the Hulk returned from the Banda Sea, where Fury had told them the quinjet had last been spotted.

"What's his name?" she asked, glancing at the cat.

" _Her_  name," Wanda corrected, a tiny smile pulling at her lips. "Trixie."

"Trixie," Beatrice repeated slowly, her eyes instinctively narrowing at Tony's most prized nickname and Beatrice's most hated.

"To be fair, I had it first," Wanda said with a mischievous quirk to her mouth.

"Well,  _Trixie_ has somehow gotten into my room every night since I returned here. Not that I mind," Beatrice quickly added, after a moment of thought. "I just didn't know it was your cat. Not that I have a problem with you having a cat. Or you."

Wanda's smile widened as Beatrice blushed. "Fitting," she said elusively.

"What?"

"She likes her namesake."

Beatrice's eyes widened in surprise. "But I thought you said—"

"I wasn't lying," Wanda said, stretching out her legs and putting the sketchbook down next to the cat. "She's named after Beatrice Hartley. One of the top ten most obscure women of the nineteen-forties."

"But—" Beatrice stammered. Aside from the plaque at the Smithsonian, she hadn't been memorialized like Steve and Bucky. "But nothing has ever been written about me…I don't understand."

"I wouldn't say  _nothing._  You just have to know where to look," Wanda countered. Beatrice returned her smile hesitantly and moved further into the room, holding out her hand to stroke Trixie, but the cat and the sketchbook had disappeared. Hazily, she realized that it had all been an illusion. Wanda had purposely led her here.

"I  _did_ have a cat named Trixie when I was young," she began, seeing the annoyance on Beatrice's face, but Beatrice herself no longer cared.

"What do you want?" she asked bracingly, keeping her eyes fixed on Wanda's, trying not to betray how unsettled she was. Unexpectedly, the other girl dropped her gaze first.

"I don't know," she said softly. "I guess because you're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm about to explode."

Her voice held a quiver to it, and she suddenly looked very young. Despite herself, Beatrice felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. "I was experimented on by Hydra, too," she confessed.

Wanda nodded slowly. "Steve Rogers told me."

"So I suppose I can understand what it's like, to have powers you're not sure how to control," Beatrice told her. "But you're not scared of them. Not like I am of mine."

Wanda glanced up at her. "I didn't know it was Hydra at first," she explained, winding her painted fingernails around the long necklace she wore. "It was Pietro's idea. We just wanted to help Sokovia. But by the time we realized what had happened, it was too late. We couldn't escape."

Beatrice thought of the forbidding fortress in the mountains above Novi Grad. "I know," she said softly. "You thought you were doing the right thing then. And you thought you were doing the right thing by helping Ultron."

"For years, we believed Tony Stark took everything from us," Wanda suddenly burst out, the words suddenly pouring out of her. She stared at Beatrice with wide eyes, as if silently begging her to understand. "Our parents, our home…Hydra and Ultron gave us a chance to exact revenge. But Ultron wanted to destroy  _everything._ I saw it." She gave a small shudder.

"And you stopped it," Beatrice said gently.

"Yes, but—at what cost? My brother is dead, my city is gone, and now I'm at the mercy of Stark." Wanda abruptly looked away from her, and Beatrice knew she was blinking back tears. Perhaps she was the only person Wanda thought she could talk to. Perhaps she  _needed_ to talk to someone.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Beatrice reached out to put a hand on Wanda's arm, drawing the other girl back to face her. "Everyone has done things they regret.  _Especially_ the Avengers," she said with a wry grin, thinking of Natasha's checkered past. "But you helped us in the end."

Wanda gave a watery smile. "I knew there was a connection between us."

"A connection?"

"Yes. Can't you feel it?" For the briefest instant, Wanda's eyes flickered red, eerily illuminated in the darkness of the room.

Beatrice remembered the uncanny similarities between the Tesseract and the scepter, and the strange pull she'd felt when she first met Wanda's gaze on the helicarrier. "Yes," she said slowly. "I think it has something to do with the Tesseract and the scepter."

"And the Vision?"

Beatrice frowned. "No, not with him." In fact, she tried to avoid the android as much as possible. There were some things she just wasn't ready for. "Do you think you can teach me?" she asked after another moment.

Wanda's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Teach you?" she echoed.

"You seem to have a better grip on your powers than me," Beatrice admitted. "And if they're similar, maybe you can help me."

For the first time, she saw genuine delight on Wanda's face.

* * *

"You're not doing it right."

The voice cut through the silence like a serrated blade, its edges gleaming and jagged. Beatrice's mouth turned down, and she desperately tried to hide the frown flickering across her face. Wanda was just out of her line of sight, but her skin prickled with awareness. It was early the following morning— _too_  early—and they were standing in the middle of Beatrice's suite as she tried desperately to summon her powers.

"Did—"

"I heard you," Beatrice interrupted. Despite herself, her eyes darted in Wanda's direction. A hand suddenly appeared in her vision; red, smoke-like magic curling around her fingers. The prickle against Beatrice's neck intensified.

"It's not a science, no matter how much Stark and Banner try to tell you it is," Wanda said. She twisted her fingers, and the smoke followed sinuously, instinctively. "There's no on and off button."

Beatrice allowed a frown to form on her face. "But—"

"Stop," Wanda gently commanded. She walked around Beatrice until the two women were standing face-to-face. "It's not a thought. It's an emotion."

"A feeling," Beatrice said, realization washing through her. As soon as it crossed her mind, blue flickered in and out around her hands before disappearing completely.

"It's that warmth in your chest. Just by your heart. And the spark in your veins," Wanda explained what Beatrice found so hard to tell Steve and Bucky. "Focus on it."

Beatrice did, closing her eyes. Warmth slowly unfurled throughout her body, originating from that spot in her chest—just by her heart. When she opened her eyes again, cosmic, unnatural blue was radiating around her hands in stunning, solid light. It shimmered at odd angles, as if touched by the stars themselves. Beatrice's lips parted, her eyes rounding.

"I did it!" she breathed.

"Move something," Wanda encouraged.

Beatrice hesitated but nodded at her encouraging grin. She waved a hand over a nearby, expensive-looking vase and summoned it over. However, she overestimated and it came hurtling over, soaring straight past her head. She spun around in alarm, but Wanda had stopped it in midair.

The Maximoff girl smirked. "You really  _are_ bad at this."

Beatrice lowered her hands and shook her head, embarrassed. "I guess I am," she admitted wryly.

Wanda plucked the vase out of the air and placed it back on the table. "But not the worst I've seen," she admitted, with a smirk.

A knock at the door interrupted Beatrice's answering grin, and the two girls exchanged a startled look. She hadn't been expecting a visitor. "Could it be Steve?" Beatrice asked, although she had just seen him at breakfast. Frowning, she padded across the carpet to open it; but they weren't met with Steve, or even Clint, but Thor himself, dressed in his traditional armor and flowing red cape rather than the nondescript human clothes he had been wearing for the past several days.

" _Thor?"_ Beatrice asked, staring at the Asgardian in disbelief. She and the god were, at the most, cordial acquaintances. "What are you doing here?"

"I cannot stay for long," he said, inclining his head to Wanda, who looked just as shocked as Beatrice. "I am to return to Asgard soon. But I have some information of importance that the two of you may be interested in."

"Sure," said Beatrice haltingly, stepping back to allow him into her suite. He moved inside and sat down on the armchair, looking extraordinarily out-of-place among the pristine furniture. Beatrice and Wanda took seats on the couch opposite him.

"When I travelled to the Water of Sight," Thor began, "I was gifted a vision by the Norns who guard it." He frowned at them. "But I suppose you wouldn't know what that means."

"Not really, no," Beatrice said. She snuck another sideways glance at Wanda, and was struck with the remarkable urge to laugh. "What did you see in the vision?"

Thor leaned forward. "The Infinity Stones," he said simply, and Beatrice's smile froze. "Six stones that were created by cosmic beings, the most powerful forces in the universe. My father used to tell me tales about them as a child. They were so dangerous that they could not even be kept on the same planet together. I saw them bring death and destruction to the entire universe, and there was nothing anyone in any of the Nine Realms could do to stop it."

"The Tesseract," Beatrice breathed, her mouth suddenly dry. "And the scepter."

Thor nodded solemnly. "It is why Ultron was created. It is why Vision was able to defeat him. Three of the Stones have shown up on Earth within the past year; it cannot be a coincidence. One of them possessed Jane and nearly killed her. And you two," he said, gesturing to Beatrice and Wanda, "Carry the powers of the Space Stone and the Mind Stone within your blood. They are part of you now."


	62. LXII

Long after Thor had departed, Beatrice stayed motionless on the couch, staring at nothing. She didn't know what to think, what to feel. Wanda had appeared to take the news fairly well, but Beatrice suspected the younger girl was still so deep in her grief over Pietro that little else mattered to her. She remembered what that felt like, and, selfishly, almost wished to feel it again.

There was a knock at the door for the second time that day, but this one was softer, more familiar. Beatrice glanced up when Steve poked his head around the door, a hesitant smile on his face. "Mind if I come in?" he asked.

"Go ahead," said Beatrice, suddenly grateful for his company. Steve stepped inside and rounded the couch to face her, holding out an envelope. Beatrice reached out to take it, confused.

"A letter?" she asked, flipping it over and examining it closely. It was a plain white envelope, with her name and address written in block letters on the front. There was no return address. "But who knows about me?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted. "A Stark Industries employee found it in the mail room and asked if I knew who it was for."

In any other situation, Beatrice would have been curious, but there were more important things weighing heavily on her mind right then. She stuffed it inside her pocket for later and looked up at Steve, who was clearly interested in the letter but not wanting to ask her outright. Something in her gaze seemed to catch his attention, and his own eyebrows drew together in concern. "Everything all right?" he asked.

She gave a slight shrug. "Only if you don't believe having an Infinity Stone inside you is important."

Steve's eyes widened.  _"What?"_ he almost choked.

"Thor was here earlier. He told Wanda and I that the Tesseract and the scepter both housed Infinity Stones. According to him, there are six of them, each tied to different aspects of the universe." Beatrice counted them off on her fingers. "Space, Mind, Reality, Power, Time, and Soul. The Tesseract is the Space Stone. Thor said it can open up portals between realms, and I can alter the space between things, like gravity. The Mind Stone was in the scepter, and that's why Wanda is able to read our thoughts. He thinks it may be why Wanda has a connection to Vision, and to me." She threaded her fingers in her lap. "But we hold only a fraction of their powers. Wanda and I can be killed, like Pietro. I'm not sure about the Vision."

Steve's expression had turned unbearably gentle during her speech. "What about the other stones?" he asked, his blue eyes holding compassion but not pity, as Beatrice had feared.

"Thor doesn't know," she told him. "He's gone back to Asgard to try to find more information. He believes they're important somehow. He said that if someone manages to collect all of them, they'll be virtually unstoppable."

A tiny frown appeared on Steve's face. "Does he think someone is trying to collect them?"

"I think so. He said he had a vision of…of the end of the universe, and Earth is at the heart of it all." Beatrice struggled to explain Thor's words. "He doesn't think it's a coincidence that three of the stones have shown up within the past year. The Tesseract, the scepter, and something that he called the Aether that Jane Foster was involved with. He doesn't know about the others."

Steve's frown had only deepened at her words, the lines on his forehead standing out as they did whenever he was in deep concentration. "But why  _here?"_

"Your guess is as good as mine," Beatrice said dryly. "He did mention that Earth is also known as a sort of cosmic backwater to the rest of the Nine Realms. I wasn't about to argue with him on that." She thought about the Tesseract, the catalyst that had sparked the Asgardian-Frost Giant war that Ivan had once told her about, hidden in Norway and unearthed by Johann Schmidt centuries later; the Mind Stone brought to Earth by Thor's adopted brother Loki, given to S.H.I.E.L.D. and stolen by undercover Hydra operatives, now in the Vision's possession; and the Reality Stone, discovered by Dr. Foster during the Convergence and now locked in what Thor referred to as the Collector's Museum on Knowhere, but he might as well have said it was in Narnia for all Beatrice had understood.

"He suggested that Wanda and I contact his friend Erik Selvig and ask for his help. Apparently he knows more about the Infinity Stones than anyone else, and he might be able to teach us about them." Now it was Beatrice's turn to frown in consideration. "Maybe I can ask Tony, too, when he gets back."

Steve seemed to jerk back to awareness at the mention of Tony, as if he had been lost in thought. "Tony is back," he said. "I ran into him on my way up here. I wouldn't strike up a conversation with him anytime soon though, if I were you."

"Why not?"

Steve winced. "Pepper broke up with him. I guess Ultron was the last straw, but they've been on uneven ground for a while—she wants a stable relationship. One where you don't have to worry if the other person is going to come home that night or not." He glanced away from Beatrice for half a second. "I can understand her point of view."

"But what about Stark Industries?" Beatrice asked. "She's the CEO, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "She'll still work for the company, but strictly in a professional capacity. Tony told me he's going to his house in Malibu for a while. He needs to work some things out."

Beatrice blinked. " _Leaving?_  He's just…quitting?"

"Honestly, I think it's a good idea," Steve replied, giving her a rueful grin. "Ultron and Sokovia really messed him up. I know it's not  _entirely_ his fault, but he's not in a great place right now. Think of it as an extended leave of absence. He's giving us full use of the tower and all of his tech."

"So there are only three Avengers now?" Beatrice asked slowly. "Assuming Thor and Bruce aren't returning anytime soon?"

"Two, actually," Steve admitted. "Clint's taking a leave of absence too. He's going back to Iowa to look after his brother—he was really sick when we were there. So it's just me and Nat now."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "That's not a team."

"No, it's not," he agreed. "That's why I wanted to ask you to join us."

All the air felt like it had been sucked out of the room as Beatrice gawked at him. "Me?" she asked dumbly. "An Avenger? I thought you didn't want me to become one of you, that it was too dangerous."

"Yeah, I know," Steve said, looking sheepish. "Look, do you remember that argument we had one day in '43 after Bucky left for training camp? Where you tried to stop me from enlisting?"

"You'll have to be more specific," Beatrice remarked, only half-jokingly, earning herself a surprised chuckle from Steve.

"Okay, I deserved that one," he acknowledged. "What I mean is, there was a time when I wanted to fight in the war more than anything else. I couldn't stand it when people tried to talk me out of it. And this  _is_  your choice, Bea. You can turn down the offer if you want. Actually, I think I'd feel better if you did. But I'm not going to try to change your mind anymore. I saw you fighting in Sokovia, and Fury definitely seems to think you have what it takes."

Instead of answering right away, Beatrice asked, "Who else?"

"Sam, Rhodey, Vision, Wanda, and you," Steve explained. "I know," he said at Beatrice's surprised intake of breath. "But Wanda has proven herself. So has Vision. They'd both be incredibly helpful on missions."

He evidently expected Beatrice to think over her answer, to weigh the pros and cons, and indeed Beatrice surprised even herself when she suddenly blurted out, "Yes. Yes, I want to become an Avenger."

"Bea, you don't have to decide right away—"

"But I already know my answer," Beatrice argued. "If I was experimented on with an Infinity Stone, it's my responsibility to do as much as I can with the powers I've been given. I don't have to start going on missions right away. I'll train as much as you want me to."

After carefully searching her face, Steve nodded, but Beatrice could tell part of him had been hoping for her to refuse. "Okay," he said after a long moment, and something like a tiny smile touched his lips. "Nat will be thrilled. She was your biggest supporter, you know."

Something warm ignited in Beatrice at the idea of her niece arguing for her to have a place on the team—and then another thought struck her. "Steve," she began haltingly, her heart pounding, "I can't be an Avenger and look for Bucky at the same time."

It was the perfect excuse: if Beatrice was an Avenger, she didn't have to worry about lying to Steve anymore. She wouldn't have to tell him that she had found Bucky, because she wouldn't be searching for him in the first place. And then, someday, when they were all together again, she could admit the truth to him. Still, she couldn't help the stab of guilt that pierced her at the very thought.

"He'll come back," Steve said quietly. "If not for me, then for you."

"Steve—"

He ignored her protest, shaking his head slowly from side to side as he stared down at his feet. "I told you once that if it had been you that went missing, Bucky would have done anything to find you. I don't think that's changed."

But Beatrice knew the truth. She had seen him in Bucharest, helped save him from Rumlow, and when she'd left he hadn't seemed inclined to follow her. Instead of answering Steve, she simply nodded and bit her lip, offering him a smile that she hoped he would interpret as grief, and not crushing guilt.

* * *

That night it took her a long time to fall asleep, and when she did she dreamed of the war. She was standing in an open field under a sky that threatened rain, staring at the rows of bodies lined up in neat rows on the grass, all the men that she couldn't save. The dead were wrapped in blankets, their open eyes unseeing, and if Beatrice squinted she could see the outline of the canvas tents that made up the 107th Field Hospital in the distance.

"Hartley! Get over here!"

In a daze, Beatrice whirled around and saw the camp's head doctor running across the field, prepared to help unload the convoy of jeeps that had suddenly appeared behind her. Wounded soldiers spilled out of nearby ambulances, medics shouting for plasma as they hurried litters into the hospital tents, the familiar groans and cries of injured men…

Acting on instinct, Beatrice moved to rush forward, to help triage the men, but her legs wouldn't move. She was frozen to the spot. She began to panic, using all of her strength to lift just one foot off the ground, but she couldn't move. She couldn't even fall backward.

"Don't bother."

Wild-eyed, Beatrice searched her surroundings for the source of the voice until her eyes landed on a feminine figure sitting up amidst the dead men, her white ward dress stained with blood. A knife stuck out of her chest from where Heinrich Zemo had impaled her with it. Diana Murphy watched Beatrice calmly, her expression completely blank. Her hair didn't even flutter in the breeze.

"It won't do anything," she continued. "You're just wasting your energy."

" _Diana!"_ Beatrice gasped; she would have fallen to her knees if she could. "You're still alive! Stay there—I can help you—"

Something foul and ugly twisted the beautiful girl's face. "No, you can't," Diana said. "You're not even a proper nurse."

Beatrice stared at her, uncomprehending. "What?"

Diana rolled her eyes, as if unable to believe the other girl's stupidity. "Why do you think the rest of us got promoted to first lieutenant and you didn't? You didn't even go to nursing school. Phillips only allowed you in because of your connections. How much do you think Howard Stark had to pay him for that?"

"That's not true!" Beatrice tried to argue. "I  _wanted_ to go to nursing school—I took night classes—"

"Hartley,  _move it!_  Even those chorus girls would do a better job than you!" Flynn shouted again. Beatrice watched helplessly as a G.I. fell, screaming, out of the back of an ambulance, twitching madly as if he was being electrocuted until he finally went deathly still.

"You don't belong here, Beatrice," Diana said, almost soothingly, when Beatrice turned back, horrified, to face her. "You don't belong anywhere."

And Beatrice knew, deep within herself, that Diana was right. She had tried to find belonging in the field hospital, in her work, but she had always been removed from the other nurses. She had been just as isolated then as she was now.

"Rosie," another voice croaked from beside Diana. "Rosie…help…"

Beatrice would know that voice anywhere, know it at the end of the world. "Bucky!" she shouted, the sound scraping her throat raw. She tried frantically to find him, but the blanket made no distinction between the bodies that lay under it. "Bucky!"

"Rosie, please, help!" Bucky yelled now, terror in his voice. "Help!"

"Diana, help him!" Beatrice screamed at her, but Diana only continued to watch her, unmoving. Panic clawed its way into her chest, knowing that she was too late, that she couldn't save him, just as she couldn't save Diana herself.

When the rain began to fall, the water was mixed with drops of blood.

* * *

Beatrice jerked free of the dream with a muffled cry, her heart thudding in her throat. She half-expected to be met with Diana's disapproving glare again, but she was alone in her dark bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs and the drawn curtains fluttering slightly in front of the open window. She dragged a hand down her face and gave a shuddering sigh, knowing that the remnants of the nightmare wouldn't disappear so easily.

The faintly glowing numbers on her alarm clock informed her that it was just after three in the morning. Far too early to be getting up, but she knew with a grim resignation that it would be impossible for her to go back to sleep. Possibly for the foreseeable future.

She sat up and gazed almost hopefully around the room, but Wanda's clever illusion was absent tonight. A shame, Beatrice thought to herself. Trixie was starting to grow on her. And if she'd ever needed a nighttime distraction, this was it.

She remained in bed for another minute, waiting to see if sleep would retake her anyway, but her mind stayed alert, probably not wanting to risk falling into the dream again. A hazy, half-formed idea began to flutter at its edges, and Beatrice felt the familiar pull that tugged at her whenever she started to plan something foolish. She tried to talk herself out of it, but the alternative—lying here and replaying the nightmare over and over—was hardly more appealing, so she climbed out of bed and walked over to the closet, quickly changing into the most average, unremarkable clothes she could find. Someday she would have to ask Natasha for tips on blending into her surroundings.

After slipping her cell phone into the pocket of her jeans, Beatrice quietly left her suite and moved down the hallway to the elevators, suddenly thankful that Steve's rooms were on the other end. If he heard her, he would surely want to come along, and Beatrice knew this was something she had to face alone.

When she stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, she pulled up the hood of her jacket and kept her head down as she made her way to the front entrance, past the night doorman who had replaced Aaron Jensen as the tower's head security guard. Not that they needed to worry, Beatrice thought to herself. This time, there were two Avengers upstairs, plus F.R.I.D.A.Y., Tony's A.I. replacement for J.A.R.V.I.S. She, at least, hadn't yet questioned Beatrice about leaving in the dead of night.

Speaking of J.A.R.V.I.S., her eyes caught movement by the revolving doors ahead, and she suppressed a sigh as she recognized Vision hovering near them, staring at the still-busy streets outside. His reddish-purple skin glowed slightly in the long shadows from the streetlights, and Beatrice could see his reflection looking back at her. She should have known that leaving wouldn't be so easy. Come to think of it, she had never given much thought to how Vision spent his nights—surely he didn't require sleep.

"Hello, Beatrice," the android greeted with his usual formalities, turning around to face her. He had never been anything but polite to her—and the others—and she felt a strange prick of guilt as she remembered the lengths she went to avoid him. She couldn't be the only one who did so.

"Hi, Vision," Beatrice replied, glancing longingly over his shoulder at the revolving doors. There was no way she would be able to keep this excursion from Steve now. "I didn't mean to disturb your…contemplation."

Vision's eyes widened in an eerily humanlike gesture of surprise. Maybe he could feel some measure of emotion, after all, Beatrice thought. Or at least synthetic emotion. Frankly, it made her head hurt to think about. She was no scientist. "You did not disturb anything," the android assured her, his gaze almost uncomfortably sharp. "I was merely wondering if it would be wise to go for a walk. There are fewer people about, but I believe I would still stand out."

Beatrice considered him for a moment. "Unfortunately, I think you might be right," she said dryly. "But then again, this  _is_  New York. There's a chance you won't even turn any heads."

Vision inclined his own head in acknowledgement, and Beatrice found her eyes drawn to the brilliant yellow gem sparkling on his forehead. The Mind Stone. How was it, she thought, that such a thing could create Ultron and Vision himself, two disparate beings? She reached out clumsily with her senses to see if she could feel the pull to Vision that Wanda had mentioned, the one she felt to Wanda herself, but she could grasp at nothing.

"Can you not sleep?" Vision asked her politely, seemingly oblivious to Beatrice's inner monologue, and she quickly scrambled herself back to the present.

"No," she ruefully admitted, shifting from foot to foot and stuffing her hands into her pockets. Great—she was even picking up Steve's mannerisms now. "I was going to Brooklyn. There's a place there I used to visit, back when I lived there…" She trailed off, realizing she was speaking to herself as much as Vision. Did the subway even still run at this time of night? She had no idea, nothing more than a vague, half-formed notion in her mind of what she wanted to do, and yet she was still acting on it anyway.

Vision blinked at her, and she could almost see his unnaturally advanced brain working faster than she would ever be able to think. But when he spoke, his words were careful and deliberate. "Would you mind if I joined you part of the way?" he inquired. "That would likely be more inconspicuous."

A year ago, if someone had told Beatrice she would be taking a late-night walk with an artificially intelligent robot made of vibranium who possessed an Infinity Stone, she would have laughed until she cried. But as it was, she simply nodded slowly and smiled at him. "Of course," she said, and nodded in the direction of the revolving doors. "Let's go."

* * *

The night was unseasonably cool, and a bitter wind blew past Beatrice's face as she walked quickly down the sidewalk, carrying with it the light mist of seaspray. She would never have been able to detect it before the serum, but now she could detect  _too_ much: the buzz of the electric lights in the buildings that lined the street; the sound of her footsteps crunching loudly against the gravel; the labored breathing of a jogger across the street. She wished she could shut it all out, even if only for a minute, and hear nothing but her own thoughts again.

But did she really  _want_ to hear her thoughts? The ones that lingered nastily in the back of her mind, the ones that whispered she was something  _other_ , something diseased, something unnatural. The girl frozen in time, who wouldn't begin aging again for another century. It was Zola's serum that ran through her veins, not Erskine's. She would always have a part of Hydra inside her now. The thought made her faintly nauseous.

And she  _was_  a freak. An experiment. She could barely contain the power of the Tesseract inside of her; the serum was the only thing that kept it from destroying her, Bruce Banner had once explained. Even if she learned to control it, it was yet another thing that set her apart from everyone else.

She wanted to be an Avenger. She wanted to feel belonging again, to feel as if she was part of this world and this time. She wanted to stick close to Steve and find Bucky, for them to bring him home together. She wanted some semblance of normalcy again, some hope that maybe she could find her footing with the boys,  _her_ boys. All three of them had somehow made it here. She had to cling to the belief that there was some sort of meaning in that.

Loud, raucous laughter echoed from somewhere ahead of her, and Beatrice glanced up to see a group of youths lounging in front of the brightly-lit windows of a nearby corner store, passing around a bottle and lighting up cigarettes. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she pulled up her hood and lowered her head so that she was staring at the ground. It was a lesson her father had drilled into her as a child: if you don't want trouble, don't make eye contact with anyone.

Luckily, this seemed to hold true even ninety years later, and she was ignored as she slunk past the group and stopped at the nearest crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green. It should be somewhere around here—

And then her eyes landed on a familiar street corner, and she couldn't help the short intake of breath that followed, a quiet gasp. She didn't take her eyes off of the building until she had crossed the street and was standing in front of it, gazing up at its façade.

The dance hall had long closed, the faded sign painted over multiple times—Beatrice thought she could make out an advertisement for a furniture store and, underneath that, an arcade—the windows boarded up, the doors tightly locked, but she could still see a phantom light pouring out from the building and hear the faint echo of swing music. This was where she had danced with Bucky for the first time; danced, period, for the first time. He had spun her around to the crooning of Frank Sinatra and gathered her close to his chest, staring down at her with that half-smirk and warmth in his eyes. She had kissed him for the first time here, caught up in a dizzying rush of feeling that she didn't understand but desperately wanted to.

She turned away from the dark windows, twisting Bucky's bracelet around her wrist and tilting her head up to the sky. Here she was, standing outside a long-abandoned building in Williamsburg, searching for ghosts. Vision had accompanied her as far as the Brooklyn Bridge, but maybe Beatrice should have asked him to come along. Standing here completely alone, she realized that she would have liked some company, even if that company wasn't entirely human.

"Hey! Lady!"

The unfamiliar voice snapped Beatrice out of her thoughts, and she turned, disoriented, to see one of the youths jogging up toward her, his hair flopping over his face and his bare arms inked with a myriad of vulgar tattoos. He smelled like cigarettes and sickly sweet cologne. "Do you have any spare change?" he asked sheepishly. "I'm really hungry."

Beatrice's eyes flickered above his head to where his friends stood loosely grouped across the street, wide grins on their faces. She raised an eyebrow. Seventy years, and Brooklyn was still the same. The thought gave her a peculiar sense of comfort.

Reaching into her pocket, she fished around for a handful of coins and tossed them to the boy before turning around to see the other teenager sneaking up behind her, preparing to pickpocket her while she was distracted. "Is that enough for a sandwich?" she asked lazily.

The boy looked grudgingly resigned, if not annoyed, that the ploy hadn't worked. "I guess," he muttered, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

"Choose your target more carefully next time, kid," Beatrice said with a slight grin. "You never know who's from around here."

A commotion from the other side of the street caught her attention then, and Beatrice glanced over to see another young boy burst out of the entrance of a store opposite, his pockets overflowing with candy, as he tore down the street. As if on cue, the youths standing under the light scattered, sprinting off in different directions as an older man appeared from the storefront, wearing a bathrobe and shouting angrily in Italian. Beatrice cast around for the boys who had approached her, but they had also disappeared: belatedly, she realized that they had just tried to distract her, and it had worked.

The man, whom she presumed was the shopkeeper, brandished his fist at the boy's retreating back and bellowed a word Beatrice hazily understood from her time in Italy:  _"Ladro!"_ —thief.

She made a split-second decision: before she had time to think it through, to form a plan, she was suddenly running down the sidewalk, the wind tearing at her hair. The street was deserted, and so she channelled all of her energy into her legs, feeling herself propelled forward at a speed that never failed to astonish her. Within seconds she was gaining on the boy, her feet pounding the concrete, the lights in nearby buildings little more than brief flashes as she tore past them. The boy glanced back when she shouted at him to stop, and she was close enough to see his eyes widen in shock at her proximity. He immediately made a sharp right turn, disappearing into a narrow alleyway, where Beatrice was certain his friends were waiting for her, possibly with weapons. She slowed down to a jog, her breathing only slightly labored, and her eyes caught on the shadow of an old, rusted fire escape. The boy may have set up a trap for anyone chasing him, but few knew Brooklyn as well as Beatrice did.

She wasted no time before rushing to the fire escape and swinging up onto it, the metal creaking under her sudden weight. Beatrice leapt up the stairs two at a time, feeling the railing swaying slightly on either side of her, and she was suddenly in Bucharest again, fleeing from Rumlow, or in Sokovia rushing to find the Avengers. Sometimes it felt as if all she had done since being awoken was run. So why was she chasing after this boy, paying attention to such a petty crime when there were far worse things occurring in the city—in the borough? Maybe she just wanted to feel alive again, to prove to herself that she was worthy to become an Avenger, too.

The gravel on the rooftop crunched under Beatrice's feet as she sprinted across it, glancing down at the dark streets below her. She caught a glimpse of the boy again as he emerged from the alley, seemingly alone, throwing furtive looks behind him as he ran; clearly he hadn't noticed her jump onto the fire escape. Beatrice reached the edge of the roof and crouched down, keeping her eyes fixed on him as he slowed his pace, breathing heavily. They were close to the Navy Yard now, and the promenade that was usually crowded with tourists during the day was empty. Beatrice could hear the rhythmic pulsing of music blasting out of a nearby open window and murmured voices from the balcony directly below her.

Hoping the loud music would be enough to muffle the sound, she dropped down onto the adjacent balcony, staying low so that the others outside wouldn't spot her. When she was certain the conversation hadn't paused, she swung her legs over the side of the railing before leaping down to the ground, breathing a silent sigh of relief when she felt concrete under her feet again.

The boy whirled around when he heard her approaching him and swore loudly; Beatrice expected him to give up, knowing he was caught—but he simply raced across the promenade, and vaulted over the balustrade.

She stood frozen in shock for half a second before dashing forward, coming to a halt at the edge of the promenade and staring down into the East River. The boy was already swimming away, moving with quick, sure strokes through the water in the direction of Brooklyn Bridge Park. Even if she ran as fast as she could on foot, she would never be able to intercept him in time. The only way she stood a chance of catching him was if she jumped into the water, too.

The thought made Beatrice's stomach twist, and she fought to control a sudden, intense wave of vertigo, the world abruptly tilting under her. She forced herself to take deep breaths, a reminder that she was in New York, not Austria, and she was free and not a prisoner of Hydra, and that Schmidt wouldn't suddenly appear and force her head down under the freezing water until spots swarmed in front of her eyes and she silently begged to die—

Beatrice wasn't aware that she had sunk down onto the ground until she felt the cold concrete of the balustrade digging into her back, but she just dropped her face into her hands, not caring who saw her now. It wasn't even about failing to stop the boy, not really. It wasn't even about Schmidt. This was just the final nail in the coffin, the thing that proved Diana was right, that she really  _didn't_ belong anywhere—least of all here. She had failed; failed to stop even a petty thief; failed to control her powers; failed to bring Bucky home; failed to tell Steve the truth, the most important thing of all.

How could she possibly think she might ever have a chance at being an Avenger? She would do nothing but let them down again and again. She wasn't even a proper nurse. She had no place in the world; she never had.

Beatrice sat there until her hands grew numb, and when she finally moved again pins and needles shot through her extremities. Something crinkled against her side when she shifted position, and, frowning, she reached into the pocket of her cardigan to find the envelope Steve had given her earlier: she had forgotten about it until now.

Grateful for a distraction, she slid her thumb under the seal and shook out its contents, but there was no letter inside. Instead, a rusted chain of metal slid out, pooling onto her palm, and her fingers traced over the worn inscription on a set of dog tags.


End file.
